


7 Things Steve Rogers Found Out About Tony Stark & The One Thing He Found Out About Him

by romanoff



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Coney Island, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Fluff, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Hurt/Comfort, Inadvisable Use Of Fur Rugs, M/M, Miscommunication, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seriously Those Stains Are Hard To Get Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:30:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1658216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve likes Tony. Tony likes Steve. They just don't know it yet.</p><p>Steve goes on a voyage of discovery for his favourite billionaire. It doesn't quite go as planned.</p><p>Seven one-shots from the lives of Tony Stark and Steve Rogers and how they fell in love. Aww.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hands

**Author's Note:**

> So, each chapter will take up a new thing that Steve learns about Tony. Fun.
> 
> Also, I'm a big fan of competent!tony. Also, daddy issues. 
> 
> As a warning, there will be violence in the last chapter.

**1.**

 

“Aaaand no, no, no, this is a _disaster area,_ I don’t actually think I can bear to be in the same _vicinity_ as this piece of _shit_ —”

“Nobody says ‘vicinity’ Tony.” Steve intones from his chair.

“Well I fucking do, okay?” He snaps. And he is tired. That much is obvious, Steve can tell from the way he rubs fists in his eyes, runs hands through his hair, from the way he downs coffee like an addict, which he probably is, and shakes almost imperceptibly.

And of course, the way he kicks the solid metal table with his foot, leading to a crash, a shout, and then further retribution on the poor, innocent hunk of furniture.

“Have you tried turning it off an on again?” Steve asks innocently and Tony fixes him with a glare that promises absolute imminent death. Steve feels bad for almost a minute but he gets over it pretty quick.

“You think you’re funny” Tony’s eyes widen comically “But let me tell you something, my friend: you’re not.”

“Mmm’” Steve hums non-committedly, turning back to his sketch of the New York City skyline. Sometimes, he can only take Tony in small doses and he has fulfilled his quota for the day.

“Fuck,” the other man swears “fuck, I think I’ve broken my foot.”

“No,” Steve says, looking at his page “I don’t think you have. Try plugging it in again.”

Tony snarls “I don’t need computer advice from _Captain America!”_

Steve didn’t know quite why Tony was so angry. Or why the computer had stopped working. Or why, Tony, in all his infinite technological wisdom didn’t just go and get another one.

“Because I _can’t,_ Steve,” he whines “it doesn’t _work_ like that.” He shakes his head “You wouldn’t understand.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay, Tony, will you tell me when you figure it out?”

Tony sighs, sits at his table, slumps, and suddenly Steve feels a bit bad because the man is obviously exhausted, probably just wanted to get the damn thing done so he could _sleep_ and now the computer’s gone and fucked up and really, it’s not fair.

So against his better judgement, Steve says:

“What were you doing?”

Tony looks up. “Uh,” he blinks “schematics,” he says, waving a hand “it’s just, I can’t do them on another computer, this one is _built_ for designs it’s not like I have a spare hanging around and, ugh, Christ, I didn’t even save and I didn’t have automatic _switched on,_ so I’ve probably lost all of it—” He slams his hand into the table, runs the other through his hair.

Steve sighs “Why don’t you get some sleep and come back to it in the morning?” He says gently.

“I _can’t,_ there’s a deadline and R&D want these in for first stage, fuck.”

“Why didn’t you do them _before?”_

“I have a _job._ Like, I have a real life job that requires getting up at six am and coming home at five and sometimes saving the world in-between trust me when I say I _literally_ did not have time.”

“Can’t you,” Steve waves his hands in the air “you know, Jarvis, that thing with the specs.” Steve has seen Tony do it before with designs for the suit, he’ll get them in holographic form and then edit them.

“No,” he says shortly “not without the fucking _original plans, fuck!”_ He slams his foot into desk again and cries out, hops, grabbing his toes.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh God, _now_ they’re broken.”

“I don’t actually think that smashing them at every opportunity is working.”

“You wise sage, you.” Tony says dryly.

But then he deflates. “I’m not going to get these done before,” he looks at his watch “fuck, all night. And then I’m going to _Shanghai_ tomorrow, I’ve got a flight at 10:30, oh God, the time difference is going to kill me.”

He slumps into his chair, rests his head on his arms. “I think I’m just gonna sleep and hope it all fixes itself when I wake up.” He says, muffled.

“Stellar plan, Tony. Has a few faults, though.”

“You have a few faults.” He mumbles childishly into his arms.

“Draw them.”

“Wha’?” Tony says sleepily, blinking rapidly, looking up at Steve.

“Draw them. With your _hands.”_

Tony blinks. “What year do you think this is, 1986?”

Steve shrugs. “You can do that, right? Draw plans.”

Tony frowns. “Well yeah, obviously. But I haven’t _drawn_ schematics with my actual _hands_ since I was twenty-three.”

“You know, in the real world,” Steve says, standing up and walking to Tony’s table “people use pencils all the time.” And then he slides his paper across the surface to Tony.

He looks conflicted, for a moment. And then he sighs. “Fuck,” he says “fuck, I’ll get them out in rough at least, get me a ruler.”

Steve smiles and leaves in search of a ruler, brings a calculator although he’s sure Tony doesn’t need it and throws them down next to him.

Tony grunts in thanks and draws, sketches roughly, then copies the designs onto squared paper, measurements perfectly scaled, and he was right, this work is time consuming, hours have passed and Tony has only finished half. 

His work is getting sloppy, crooked. Unthinking, Steve makes him more coffee. And he takes it in one hand, drinks, puts it down. It’s robotic, it’s the sign of a man who spends too many nights at a desk and not enough in bed.

Steve finishes his own sketch but continues watching the sun set. Then, he watches Tony. Not in a weird way, absolutely not, no, he just likes to watch him work. He doesn’t see him this focused often. It makes a nice change.

But there’s something wrong. 

It takes Steve a while to notice, and he probably would have ignored it had the coffee cup not fallen when Tony’s elbow crashes into it, spilling brown liquid over his schematics.

Tony jumps from his work induced stupor, swears vehemently and kicks the table one last time. “Shit,” he says “shit fuck shit,” he swipes the paper but it’s too late, it’s already soaked through. “Don’t just stand there!” He cries “Get towels or something, _shit,_ oh God, I’m never going to finish.”

“You’re… you’re left handed?”

“No, I purposely write with a hand that turns the world backwards just for kicks yes of _course_ I’m left handed.” Tony snaps, laying his design out onto a counter. And then he kinda just melts.

“Fuck it,” he says softly “I’m going to bed, I’ll get up early and see what I can do.”

“You write with your left hand.”

Tony looks up. “Yes,” he says slowly “did people not have left hands in 1940?”

“That’s funny, Tony. No, I mean, why didn’t _I_ know you were left handed.”

Tony blinks. “I don’t know. There’s… well, there is a lot you wouldn’t know about me?” He sounds confused.

“Right,” Steve nods “way too much.”

Tony looks at him funnily. “Okay,” he says, backing away “I’m just, I’m gonna go now.”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll, I’ll see you around, hopefully.”

Oh God. Oh God, Steve should just kill himself now and save himself the embarrassment.

“Yeah,” and Tony, Christ, is he blushing? No, no, it must, it’s the light “uh, hopefully?”

“Yeah,” Steve says seriously “touch God.” He stumbles.

Tony looks at him, raises an eyebrow “Excuse me?”

“I mean, thank wood. God. Thank God. Touch wood. Uh,” he’s blushing furiously and he knocks his coffee to the side with his chunky elbow, liquid spilling over the edges.

Tony blinks. “Are you touching wood or thanking God?”

Steve makes an uneasy shrug. “Both apparently.”

“Right,” Tony says, and he is definitely moving backwards “well, I’ll, shit,” he bangs his hip against the corner of a counter, loses his balance. “Fuck, that’s it, goodnight, I am going.” And he turns, leaves fast, maybe too fast.

Steve covers his head with his hands.

It’s not that he doesn’t know how to handle Tony, he does. But the man throws him off, constantly, everything about him is abrupt and harsh, he doesn’t know how to melt his outer shell. Because he wants to, he likes Tony, he likes his team, every other member is his _friend_ except Tony, who he can’t seem to crack.

They’re friendly enough, sure. They don’t fight, anymore. Or they do, but it’s not explosive. Steve can’t help wanting his friendship, though. 

Tony has that effect on people.

 


	2. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody cries. Even billionaires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Angst. Angst. Angst.
> 
> And fluff.
> 
> And angst. Lots of angst.

**2.**

Tony Stark cries in his sleep.

In his head, it sounds funny, maybe. _Haha, Tony Stark cries like a baby._ But it’s not. It’s scary, and heart-wrenching, and confusing.

He has never seen Tony cry. Ever. In their line of work, it happens. People die. Things break. Steve himself finds that he cries easily himself at the thought of the world he left behind. There is nothing to be ashamed of.

Tony just doesn’t. Steve doesn’t know if it’s a power thing, that he can’t show weakness, or if maybe he’s had his tear ducts _removed_ because not once, _ever,_ has he seen a tear roll down his cheek. Or his face crumple. It helps, maybe, that he wears a mask, but even then Steve would have thought there would have thought that he should have seen _some_ display of emotion by now. It’s not that he’s fixated on it, he’s not, he just doesn’t understand why Tony doesn’t cry. If maybe he _can’t,_ maybe there’s something wrong with him.

Which is bad, obviously. But it can be distancing, sometimes, watching Tony keep himself together while Steve can’t.

And Steve would like to add that he really didn’t mean to stumble on Tony sleeping. Really. It’s not like he was watching him or anything.

But there he is. And he must of just collapsed with exhaustion, Steve can see it written in every feature, the way an arm drags on the floor, how one leg is thrown over the back of the couch, the dark, deep bruises under his eyes and the dirty tank top with a singe on his left breast. His head is twisted at an uneven angle that makes Steve wince, his jeans are crumpled and his vest has ridden up his stomach, catching on a hip bone and displaying a small portion of tanned olive skin.

His hair is greasy. One hand rests, gentle, on the arc reactor, the edges of his skin tinting blue, the shadows of his face highlighted with it. He looks soft.

The little scars on his hands can be seen in the contrasting light.

He frowns, as if detecting Steve’s presence, his hips wiggle slightly and he snuffles lightly, head rolling so his ear is pressed flat against the couch, face turned towards Steve.

Steve should go, now. He should. But he has never seen Tony like this. Ever. Silent. Still. Almost _peaceful._

The moment hangs in the air.

And slowly, Tony’s face crumples.

He gasps.

His fingers clench where they lie on the floor. Over the arc.

A small whimper, barely audible, but his face is scrunched, lips turning downwards, brow drawn tight, the face of someone about to spill over the edge.

Steve knows he should leave. Because he shouldn’t be witness to this. It’s wrong, too _close,_ Tony is his friend, he can’t watch this, can’t let him know he ever saw it because he knows _exactly_ how Tony would react.

But he has never seen Tony cry.

At that moment, he tenses. His fingers tighten and his head jerks, a gasp rips from his lips. His face is scrunched tight and he trembles and then comes the low moan, the wobble of his bottom lip as his mouth slides open, brow furrowed.

At first, no tears fall although he makes angry, sobbing noises. But then Steve sees where heavy lashes shine and his cheeks grow damp and Tony starts to cry in earnest, hand dragging up to rest on his chin. He rolls onto his side, clutches one arm protectively around his body, the other pressing against his mouth, almost as if he knows even now not to cry, tries to stifle the noises. 

His body shakes, racked with sobs, and he draws up his knees, curls tight, muffles the sound with a fist in his mouth.

Steve shouldn’t be watching this. He doesn’t want to watch this anymore.

It’s scary. It’s disorientating, and wrong. And he it hurts, it hurts to watch a man like Tony fall apart like that. _It’s like watching a parent cry_ Steve thinks distantly, and it’s true. Watching those people you love the most, the ones that stay strong for you, break down is never easy.

He’s glad Tony is not awake to know he is there.

He finds a blanket, drapes it over Tony’s body. And then he can’t resist, it’s the strangest urge, just to brush the tips of his fingers though his hair, soothe the man in sleep.

He will not wake him. One nightmare compared to the way Tony will avoid Steve for the rest of the month isn’t quite worth it.

Still. Steve wonders what terrors he is facing tonight, in his dreamscape. He wonders what has the capacity to make Tony break down this way.

His fingers keep up their toying as Tony shudders.

And then his eyes open.

Steve freezes, caught. Stuck in a trap. 

Tony just stares at him from under half-lids, eyes glassy, wet, wide, and still shivering. He clutches reflexively at Steve’s shirt, hand fisting tightly in the material. 

Steve does not move a muscle.

“Is it,” Tony’s eyes slide shut and flicker open, his voice is hoarse with sleep “where, I lost my, they took my shoes, ‘nd…”

“It’s Friday, about half-eleven and we’re in Stark tower.” Steve says, not moving, voice even and level.

Tony’s eyes flicker, still wet with tears. 

Steve does not move. His hand still rests on Tony’s head.

Gently, his eyelids slide closed. His arm falls, slack, to the ground.

He expects Tony to open his eyes, accuse him of prying, of sneaking, tell him to fuck off, to leave him alone, his voice full of hurt and embarrassment but it never comes.

He watches him, then. His breaths. In.

And out.

Gentle, but strong.

Healthy.

This close, he looks so vulnerable. No more bravado here.

His lips look soft.

Sometime later, maybe a minute, maybe an hour, Steve eases himself gently away.

Tony’s breathing evens out and he does not cry again that night.

 


	3. Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard Stark's A+ Parenting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so the next chapter will be funny i swear

**3.**

The Stark mansion has been deserted for years.

Steve follows Tony because he says that he’s going to sift through his father’s things, sort everything out. And that there are some of Steve’s old things, filed away in Howard’s basement that he might like to check out.

Steve doesn’t mind. He enjoys it, enjoys Tony. Enjoys Tony’s _company._ His company, not him, that sounds strange. Although it is true. 

Tony says he keeps the place clean, that he has people who come in every month to dust it off. But for the most part, everything is covered in white sheets, folded away.

“I didn’t really have much to take with me,” Tony explains “everything… everything pretty much the same as it was the day they died.”

And Steve can see that. Because on the coffee table, there are still faded magazines dated the christmas of 1991.

They move to the office, the old one, Howard’s, and it’s still cluttered, there are still papers on the desk. Tony absent-mindedly sifts through them, picks some up, sighs, and sorts them into a pile.

“Come here,” he says “I need you to lift this for me. I don’t think it works anymore.”

Steve turns and watches as Tony moves to the chest in the corner of the room. “Pick it up?” He asks and Steve frowns, but does it anyway.

It’s heavy, way heavier than any chest has a right to be, but he lifts it any way, grunts. 

Nothing happens. It remains bolted to the floor.

“Uh,” Tony sighs, scratches the back of his head “try pushing?”

Steve kicks it and it moves easily, rolls, revealing a metal slab underneath.

“Whoops.” Tony says grinning

“What’s down there?” Steve asks, frowning, as Tony lifts the slab revealing a ladder down into a dark basement.

“Oh this?” Tony jumps down, hooks his hands onto the metal “We have these all over the house. Panic rooms, basements. I had a hell of a time searching them when I was a kid,” he pauses, jumps the last few rungs and dusts of his hands “of course, then I got stuck in one and nobody found me until Jarvis heard the screaming — no, don’t shut it, Christ, why would you do that?” Tony snaps.

Steve jumps down and Tony fumbles with the wall. “There’s a switch here somewhere,” he murmurs.

Steve coughs. The room is thick with dust, it smells like old paper, the floorboards creak beneath his feet. He blinks, squinting, when Tony finds the light. The room is small, metal walls with dead-bolts punching them together. It’s perfectly square, and opposite them were boxes, boxes of papers, roles designs, clothes, a stack of magazines, some trunks. It’s a pick and mix of Tony’s childhood left resting, forgotten, under an old mansion.

Which is probably just how Tony likes it.

Tony come to stand next to Steve, hands on hips, sighing. “Well.” He says “This will be fun.”

 

* * *

Some two hours later and tears stream down Tony’s face.

“And then,” he snorts “and then, and then he says ‘look, Jarvis, look, I’m no prude, but,” Tony’s breath hitches, he takes a moment, shaking with laughter and Steve grins. “‘But,’” he continues “if you’re gonna have it in the house then,’” Tears of mirth roll down his cheeks “‘then you’re gonna have to sell the bananas first!”

Steve explodes, he hasn’t laughed so much in a _while_ it feels _good,_ and Tony is hysterically giggling head thrown back and hand coming up to his mouth to stifle the sounds.

“Christ,” Steve says, shaking “what did he say to that?”

Tony snorts “I don’t know, as you can imagine, it quickly became no longer suitable for a child to be in the room.”

They laugh again, and it takes a few minutes for them to calm down. Steve keeps laughing sporadically and Tony keeps throwing him pleased glances which he thinks Steve can’t notice.

The rifle through more of the old things and Steve stumbles upon some delightful old photos of Tony in a footie-onesie that he announce he is keeping as blackmail material in case Tony ever goes to the dark side. And then, he finds a picture of him and _Bucky,_ except, okay, they’re in women’s clothes and this starts Tony off all over again and soon Steve is into a two hours diatribe about their mission to infiltrate _that_ Nazi club that catered to high-ranking men of certain tastes and then another hour is waster flicking through Howard’s old specs.

Eventually, after they’d calmed down, and the clock had rolled past 9pm, Steve opens a box with the words ‘toys for tony stark age 6 3/4’ written in childish handwriting. The ’s’ on Stark is the wrong way round.

Steve opens it, and maybe if Tony hadn’t been so busy pouring over old specs he would have protested, but Steve opens it anyway and stares into the contents of the musty old box which hold precisely two toys, a mitt and a stuffed shark.

“Oh my God!” Tony says in soft amusement “That’s my shark!”

He takes it from the box, dusts it down, grins. “Shark,” he says, in lieu of explanation and he holds it in his lap. It’s quite big, blue and white with goggly eyes. It’s soft, though, plushy, it’s made to be squeezed and Tony hooks it under his arm with childish delight.

“Jarvis got him for my fourth birthday,” he explains, answering Steve’s enquiring stare “he took me to the aquarium. I, you know, I’d never been before. Or ever again, for that matter.” Tony frowns “I’m not actually that big a fan of fish. But anyway, we were in the gift store, right? And he said ‘you can get one thing, Tony, one thing only,” and I was like, well, you know, you’re in an aquarium and you’re four years old and you’re gonna go the the huge plush shark, right?”

“Right.” Steve repeats, seriously.

Tony smiles. And then he turns away, and Steve senses the conversation is over.

But, he is curious.

“You ever play?” Steve says with a teasing smile, holding the mitt in his hand.

Tony looks up. “Uh,” he swallows “no?”

Steve blinks. “What.”

“Why, have you?”

“Tony, I was an asthmatic pneumonia survivor living in the world’s smoggiest city and even _I_ played ball once or twice.”

“Yeah, well,” Tony looks uncomfortable “the occasion never called for it.”

“Never—” Steve scoffs “Never called for it? _Playing ball?_ What were you, a robot?”

Tony coughs, mumbles something.

“What?”

“I said, no one ever wanted to play with me.” 

Steve suddenly feels awful. Like, really, really bad. Scum of the earth bad. The back of his neck prickles and he feels his face heat. It’s intensely awkward.

“You never, I mean, Howard never,” he sees Tony’s face “Jarvis then, Jarvis, no? Uh,” Steve scratches the back of his neck, blushes “you didn’t, there weren't any kids who, who maybe, okay, no, I’m gonna stoptalking.”

Tony fiddles with Shark. He looks on the verge of tears and it’s incredibly uncomfortable, especially after what he witnessed that night on the couch. He imagines Tony trying to get other children to play, trying to convince Jarvis to take time off work, Howard, even, and him being rejected, turned away.

It hurts, actually, more than he wants to admit. Because he doesn’t want to think that Tony was ever rejected, or turned away, because that’s what happened to _him,_ goddammit, and it’s not _nice._

“I, uh,” Tony clears his throat “I bought it for, I saw this ad in a magazine, and there was this kid and his dad, and I thought,” he scratches his nose, plays with Shark’s fins “yeah, I mean, I thought I could get him to play, but, you know, busy busy busy!” He frowns, laughs despondently “I mean, those weren't his exact words. He was drunk, so,” Tony coughs, tries to cover the way his voice cracks, slightly.

“What happened?” Steve asks, softly.

Tony looks up, but his eyes aren’t wet, like he expected. They’re brimming with anger. “He told me to fuck off. I was five, who does that, who tells their son to fuck off because he wants to play? He never played with me, _never._ It’s not fair, everyone else got to play ball, but I never did.” His jaw sets “And, and at school, all the other kid’s parents would come at the week-end, or at least at the end of the month or they would send letters or whatever but mine never did. Never. Do you know what that’s like?” He spits “I had— every single week, all the other parents would take their kids out for dinner or to the park or to the movies or whatever and every single week I thought ‘hey, maybe this week will be the one!’” He laughs, high and brittle “But no. And I wrote letters. Everyday. I sent letters all the time, I kept asking to come home, and when I realised that wasn’t working I tried to tell them about all the work I’d done, my teachers, my projects but no one ever replied. Ever. Do you know how _humiliating_ it is to be the only kid who never got a letter? _Never!_ I spent nine years there and they never contacted me once.”

Tony is working himself up into a fury, a frenzy. Steve lets it happen.

“And then,” Tony quietens, suddenly “and then this one time, this guy, Curt, broke his arm, and all the kids signed his cast. And I thought, you know, I thought, maybe if _I_ broke an arm my dad might—”

“You didn’t.” Steve says, horrified.

“I tried. It didn’t— I threw myself down some stairs. I didn’t break an arm but I ended up with a pretty nasty concussion.”

Steve doesn’t want to ask. “And?”

“Nobody came.” Tony says shortly “And the rest of the kids spent the year reminding me to tie up my shoelaces.”

It’s funny, because Steve had always known that Tony loved attention. He just didn’t know he craved it. And it’s not a selfish thing, Steve realises. Tony is just trying to justify to himself why nobody ever spent time with him with a kid.

“What about your mom?” Steve blurts.

“My… mom.” Tony says looking away. “She was,” and _now_ he looks sad, and Steve thinks he might have pushed too far.

“Did you have a favourite toy?” Steve covers quickly, obviously, and Tony looks relieved for it.

“Uh,” he grins, awkwardly shoves Shark forward “hi.”

“ _That_ was you’re favourite thing? I thought rich kids had it all.” Steve says, desperate to make the atmosphere lighter.

“Yeah,” Tony says “but I never really did enjoy playing with them, honestly. I liked my screwdriver, engines, that sort of shit. But a shark isn’t just a one time thing, you get a shark this big and this fluffy you hold onto it. Once in a lifetime opportunity. One of those comfort object things. I freaked out when I left it, though, I thought since I was a big kid, you know, six years old, I wouldn’t need it anymore.”

“What happened?”

He sighs. “I was too young to be sent away.”

“Yeah,” Steve says “you were.”

Tony smiles softly. There’s more, he realises, more he wants to say, or needs to, but he knows he won’t.

It doesn’t matter. They have time.

Steve realises he likes Tony Stark. And he wants to help him. Protect him, even. Because the idea of him being shoved from place to place, ignored, bullied, it makes sense. And Steve hates bullies.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any questions find me at grooot.tumblr.com and comments are much loved!!


	4. Intolerance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations all round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what is happening in this chapter. At all. I just kinda rolled with it.
> 
> Steve and Tony are basically big children with a lot of unresolved sexual tension.

**4.**

“I can’t,” Tony gasps “God, I can’t, I can’t—”

A few days after the mitt incident and Steve walks into Tony’s room in order to return pair of briefs (don’t ask) he had borrowed the day before, and he hadn’t actually expected Tony to be in the room but was soon made aware of his presence from the wet sounds coming from the bathroom, the groans.

Oh God. Is he…?

Tony moans “Jesus, ugh, Christ, that is disgusting—” Another wet noise, _retching,_ Steve realises, and he walks to the door, peers into the bathroom where Tony’s head is currently stuck down the toilet. The smaller man’s body tenses and he expels more waste from his body, lifting his head shakily and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Uh,” Steve starts “fun night?”

Tony flinches, jumps “Jesus!” He spits, coughing, and then, ugh, retching _again._ Steve winces slightly, leans against the door frame.

“Do you want water?” Steve answers, crossing his arms with a wry smile.

“That would be,” Tony huffs “water would be good.”

Steve chuckles, holds out a hand and Tony sighs, grips it tight and struggles to his feet. Steve hears his belly groan and Tony hisses, wraps one arm around his torso.

“Fuck,” he moans “I’m going to bed, this is bullshit,”

Steve feels the heavy weight of the man beside him. Solid, strong. Tony is well-built, stocky. He can feel the thick muscles of his arms, his torso, where his elbow meets Tony’s skin in casual brush. It sends sparks up his arm, which Tony doesn’t notice.

Steve blinks and follows him out into the room, where Tony promptly collapses spread-eagled on the bed, cheek smushed into a pillow, groaning.

“Can I ask what’s wrong?” Steve says “Or is this a see no evil hear no evil situation?”

Tony moans, shuts his eyes. “You know the tub of ice cream in my fridge?”

Steve thinks. “The gallon tub?”

“That’s the one.”

“You didn’t.”

Tony groans. “I so did.”

“ _Why?”_ Steve asks incredulously.

“Stop judging me.” Tony whines.

“I’m not judging you,” Steve says judgementally.

“I thought I could _handle_ it, but I really can’t, I was _wrong,_ Steve, I was so, so wrong.” Tony draws his legs and arms close, wraps them tight around his body, moans.

Steve sighs, and it’s a long suffering sigh, because really he can’t quite fathom what exactly Tony was thinking when he ate a gallon of ice cream.

“Two gallons,” Tony interrupts “I lied, it was two, I think I’m gonna die.”

“Okay,” Steve pauses “are you sure?” He asks, seriously.

“I don’t want to scare you but I think I might already be dead.” His belly gives another tremendous rumble and he whimpers, curls in on his self.

“Leave me,” he says “leave me and save yourself, I, I’ll be fine.” he rolls onto his back, one hand slapping against his forehead as he groans.

In his head, Steve adds _flair for the dramatic_ onto that list of things he’s been finding out about Tony.

“Clint dared me,” Tony wails “I couldn’t say no!”

“No, Tony, I mean, I’m glad, you know?” Steve shakes his head, stands at the foot of the bed “it is, I can honestly say this, by the way, it is _so very comforting_ to know that the fate of the world rests in you hands, that I, as Captain America, have chosen to entrust the security of all I hold dear _to you._ That, that the burden of liberty and justice rides on, not only your shoulders, but Clint’s, too, and that both of you—”

“I get it,” Tony moans “fuck, okay, I won’t do it again. I don’t _normally,_ you don’t understand, I can’t even _eat_ that much dairy, I’m intolerant—”

Steve frowns. “You’re what?”

Tony raises his head on the bed, chin squishing against his chest. “I’m intolerant.” He repeats.

“Well, yeah,” Steve blinks. “I know that.”

Tony sneers. “To _lactose_ you ass, not in general.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Tony says, head flopping back to the pillow “more like ‘oops’, because I’m a fucking _idiot,_ that’s what. But I tell you something, Cap, today I maintained my dignity. I stared Barton in the face and I beat him at his own game, and that,” he pumps one fist in the air, points a finger at Steve “hey. That _counts_ for something.”

His stomach lurches, makes a noise like toilet flushing, and then he belches, body physically lifting off the bed with the force of it.

“Yes,” Steve says, solemnly “dignity. Honour. The sentinel, Tony, that’s what you are, the futurist, standing watch over the future generations, the man who flew a nuke into space and came back in time for lunch—”

Tony groans, drags a pillow over his head. “Fuck, I get it, leave me alone, okay? I showed bravery today—”

“Stupidity,” Steve interrupts “stupidity, because you knew you were intolerant—”

“Courage,” Tony continues “stamina. A sense of adventure—”

“— you ate _two gallons_ of ice cream, I mean—”

Tony sits up in the bed. “Are you telling me that if our positions had been reversed you wouldn’t have done the same? That you would have let Barton _beat you?_ Are you—”

Steve points a finger, swings onto the bed. “I killed Nazi’s, Stark, not dairy products. I think what you are looking for are called _priorities—_ ”

“Priorities?” Tony shuffles closer “hey, _I_ have priorities, my whole life is set of priorities,” he says angrily “I _never_ do _anything_ without—”

“Oh please,” Steve scoffs “don’t make me laugh, I caught you making a catapult out of leftover food when you have been working on helicarrier propulsion systems—”

“Have you ever _seen_ helicarrier propulsion systems?” Tony pokes Steve square in the chest “if you had, _you_ would have rather made food catapults too.”

“Quit it,” Steve say irritably, pushing his finger from his chest “why do you purposely do things to piss me off?”

Tony stares at him incredulously. “Piss _you_ off? Well, _excuse me!_ Goddamn, you’re right! Everything I do, literally everything, is done with the express intention of raising your fucking hackles, you’re absolutely correct Steve, I have nothing better to do than—”

“ _Stop poking me!”_ Steve says, and he lands one meaty finger right in the middle of Tony’s arc reactor “I don’t like being poked!”

“Yeah?” Tony grits, slamming a finger into Steve’s shoulder “well _neither do I!”_

Steve sees red. He pushes his finger into Tony’s non-existent sternum. Tony’s eyes narrow, and he lifts his finger, presses it against Steve’s chest, again and again.

And then they’re poking each other. And they’re not stopping.

“Stop,” Steve says “ _poking me!”_

_“Poking you?”_ Tony spits “you’re fucking poking me!” And he ups his game, slams _both_ fingers into Steve’s chest.

Steve lunges, pushes Tony back into the bed, straddles his waist and pokes, and pokes, and pokes, over and over. “How do you like that?!” he shouts “huh? I’m poking you, yeah I’m _poking you!”_

Tony grunts, kicks his feet against the bed and tries to dislodge the weight. “Asshole!” He says, slapping his hands against Steve’s chest “you’re a fucking asshole!”

Steve grins. In his hands now, he wields infinite power, the power to poke, to teach Tony a lesson, and he is driven mad by all the possibility, wild and fantastical. He wonders vaguely is this is how the Red Skull felt after he got the serum and his mouth stretches in a feral grin, he raises his finger, ready to bring it down onto Tony’s chest—

“YOU KNOW WHO DOESN’T LIKE POKING?” Clint screams, head shoving round the door “THE FUCKING HULK DOESN’T LIKE POKING.” He slams the door behind him. “KEEP YOUR LOVEMAKING DOWN, YOU ASSHOLES.”He shouts from behind the door.

Steve frowns. Looks down.

At Tony.

Whose waist he is straddling.

“Uh,” he blinks. Swallows.

Tony’s eyes have slid, half-lidded. “You gonna get off me, Captain?” He says, one side of his mouth cocking upwards.

Steve’s eyes narrow. “Make me,” he says, breathless.

The moment hangs there. Tony’s eyes slide shut, and Steve, Steve finds himself moving slowly closer. Lips pouting. Tony tilts his head to the side. They’re so close, now. They’re noses are practically touching. Tony’s hot breath ghosts over his cheek, he shifts on his waist, brings himself closer, and Tony’s lips rise up to meet him—

A rumble. Tony’s eyes fly open. And then he’s sick over Steve’s shirt.

 

* * *

A few days later, after Tony has apologised profusely, and Steve had waved it off, not quite looking him the eye, Steve lies in bed.

He’s dreaming. And it’s a good dream. He and Tony are at the park, they’re watching some magic act from the back of the crowd. Tony is eating ice cream.

His lips dance over the pink cone, dip over the thick cream. He sucks, wet noises emanating from his pretty little mouth, looks up at Steve, lashes thick and eyes wide, and when he pulls the cone away it makes an obscene slurping noise. His tongue dances over his lips, and his eyelids grow heavy, he laps at the remaining pink cream. Brings his hands to his mouth and sucks the remnants from there.

Then they’re in his bed, and the light is streaming in from the outside. It’s still afternoon, but this is their day, and they will spend it how they like. Tony is naked, and Steve briefly wonders why, but then they’re tumbling over the sheets, and he catches Tony beneath him, straddles his hips, skims gentle fingers over the place where the arc reactor sits.

Flashes of light, and heat, and sweat.

Later, as the sun begins to set, Tony is lying, stretched out on his side, light dappling over his skin. A white sheet is tangled in his legs and his eyes are closed. He is sleeping, peacefully, and there are no nightmares.

Steve finds himself tracing his features with a delicate finger, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. He sits up and drinks in the sight of his tanned skin, smooth, a perfect match to the sun.

“Tony,” he whispers, and his eyes slide open.

Tony yawns. “Steve,” he says softly “where are you going? Come back to bed.”

Steve jams awake, panting, he sits up in his bed. It’s dark, he is alone. The room is such a sudden contrast to the gentleness of his dream that it jars him, and he doesn’t notice at first that he is appalling hard, this thick length hot against his thigh.

He buries his head in his hands, chest heaving. He doesn’t understand, and yet he doesn’t want to lose his memories of that dream. The peace. The calm. The sight of Tony’s healthy, warm body stretched out and lax, pliable. How he had gently called his lover back to his side, voice confused, unsure of why Steve was leaving.

But he doesn’t think of Tony that way. He doesn’t. He _likes him,_ sure, he’s swell, they’re great friends. Best friends, even, maybe. Steve would _like_ them to be. But not like that, not like, he doesn’t—

Steve realises that he has fallen, and fallen hard.

And the only thing that could possibly be worse is that Tony doesn’t love him back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments! Especially anything on writing style!


	5. Piano

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for discussion of alcoholism

Steve hears it before he sees it.

Lilting. Soft.

A piano.

He doesn’t play, never has. But there is something about the sound that he has always enjoyed. Watching the pianist’s hands dance over the keys, fast, slow, creating beautiful sounds at the gentle press of slender fingers on luminescent ivory and ebony.

Steve had come here in search of Tony. He’s never been on this floor of his penthouse before, all the Avenger’s have a floor but Tony has two. He was under the impression that it was a private place, maybe, somewhere quiet for Tony to be alone, so when he asked Jarvis where he could find him and Jarvis invited him up he went, curious.

He stops in the doorway of a room, because he hadn’t expected this. 

He had assumed that Jarvis was playing music; Steve knows that it calms him on days where he can’t sleep, and he knows better than most that Tony has trouble sleeping. He hadn’t expected to see Tony at the grand piano, fingers dancing in the dying sun.

He sits at the piano in front of the wide window overlooking the sunset, New York gleams, all glass and steel and soft shimmering light.A glass bottle of amber liquid sits on the ebony lid of the grand piano, and it’s opened, one quarter lost already. And yet Tony plays smoothly, surely. His fingers move, they dance, and Steve, he steps closer, leans against the piano, and watches.

It’s intimate. Tony’s eyes flick up briefly in recognition, but he does not ask him to leave. It’s been awkward, between them. Or, not awkward, although something has changed. A gear has shifted. Steve came close, so close, to showing Tony his feelings. 

He’s not sure where to take it; he’s not sure where he and Tony stand. Right now, Tony’s slender fingers keep up their toying of the keys, a sad song in minor. His eyes slide shut, gently, his lips part, and he loses himself to his own playing.

It’s a piece he knows well, obviously. Steve has never seen him play but maybe this is a past time of his, alone, in this empty room with it’s one piano. Or maybe it’s something learnt as a child that stays with him even now. By his own admission, Tony did not have friends.

The music slows, draws out into a pattern, one two three, one two three, and Tony’s eyes open. He picks up his hand, straightens his back, and sets himself forward, plays with an increasing enthusiasm.

The dying light dapples across the piano. The window cast watery shadows, reflected in black. Tony’s face is dark, drawn. His eyelids drop, half-lidded.

He doesn’t speak, and neither does Steve.

It should be awkward. It should feel like an invasion of privacy. But it doesn’t. Instead, the atmosphere is comfortable. Steve tries to imagine being like this with Tony all the time. Instead of whatever it is they have now; something special, something more. Steve wants it.

He has dreams. And he tries to stop them, his guilty pleasures that find him at night. But he can’t; the thought of Tony the way he sees him in his sleep, stretched out on crisp white sheets, always naked, eyes closed or sinking. Loose, pliable, relaxed. In those dreams, Steve will map out the lines of his muscles with gentle fingers. He will paint his features with pleasure. In those dreams, his mind fills in for him the small noises, the breaths, moans, that Tony will make under his fingers as he spills into his hand.

Now, Steve shutters the thoughts away. It’s difficult when the light shifts so beautifully over Tony’s skin, when it reflects that way off of the piano. It’s too similar to his dreams.

Tony’s fingers press suddenly, down, hard, and Steve jerks in surprise. But almost immediately they bring back to a sad, sad tune. Soft, slow. But maybe hopeful, too.

He plays, and his fingers weave pictures into Steve’s mind, pictures of loss, and his life before, and everything that a sad song can bring. Tony is good; he is more than good, he is a natural. To reach this level of talent he must have been playing regularly from an early age.

He’s crying. Or, not quite crying, but his head is bowed. One tear, just one, tracks it’s way down his cheek, and collects, pearlescent, on a white key.

The music trails down.

Tony reaches up, one hand grasping the neck of the bottle. He tilts back his head and drinks, ragged, desperate. From this position, Steve sees where a light coating of sweat glistens on his skin. His throat works around the bottle, and Steve should stop him, he shouldn’t let him drink this heavily, it’s one thing about Tony that Steve will never appreciate, will never come to love, because it is wrong and he hurts himself. 

Tony drinks to stall pain. He self-medicates. Watching him, and letting him, makes Steve angry. But who is he to protest? Who is he to tell a man where to put his drink?

Steve knows alcoholics. He knows them well, more than he would like to. He knew his father. He knew men in the army, men who couldn’t cope and went to drown their sorrows in cheap booze and brain death. And then those who drank out of sheer boredom, drank for a good time, for the sake of drinking, but whose eyes were empty and who could never quite hide the shakes.

Tony shakes now and he chokes, bottle clunking back onto the lid of the piano, spilled, and Steve picks it up before the liquid finds it’s way into the crack, destroys the beautiful instrument.

Tony brings the back of his hand to his mouth, swipes. Amber has stained his white shirt and he coughs, drags a shaky hand through his greasy hair.

“I’m drunk,” he says, bluntly. “I am,” he blinks “so, so drunk.”

He lists to the side, slides from the cushioned seat, and just like the bottle, Steve manages to catch him in time. “Woah,” he says, steadying him, pushing him back in place “careful, Tony.”

Tony snorts, giggles. Even after Steve lets go, he holds on, one hand fisted in Steve’s shirt.

“I’m,” he frowns, pensive “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“I never said you were.”

Tony brings up his free hand to rap at his temples. “Yeah, but you,” he hiccups “but you thinking it. You’re thinking ‘God, Tony’s such a wreck,” but I’m not. I’m not an alco—” another hiccup “not an alcoholic.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Steve says again, softly. “You’re the one who thinks that.”

Tony frowns. “That’s not fair,” he mumbles “that’s not fair.”

Steve takes a chance, while Tony is distracted, to run a hand through Tony’s hair. “I didn’t know you could play so well.” Steve says, honestly, as he stands by Tony’s side, one hand on his head while Tony keeps his fingers clenched in his shirt.

Tony sighs. “My mom,” he says “she taught me.”

“Was she good?”

“She was good at a lot.” And Tony brusquely disentangles himself from Steve, shoves off him “She was a good woman.”

“I wondered,” Steve says lightly “you don’t talk about her often.”

“My mom,” Tony says, fingers skimming the keys “gets forgotten. 'Cause of my dad. 'Cause of what he was. What he did.” Tony’s face darkens “He was an ass.” Tony says aside, huffing.

“I know you had a difficult relationship."

Tony snorts. “He was a drunk. He was a drunk,” Tony repeats “but my mom was an alcoholic.”

Steve pauses. Lets that sink in. “I didn’t know there was a difference,” he says, carefully.

Tony doesn’t open up about this. He never has. Steve wants to push him, while he’s willing, while he’s not in control. And that’s bad. But this, what he’s telling Steve, this is something he hadn’t anticipated.

He hadn’t quite realised Tony felt so strongly about his father. He knew he had been neglectful. He knew that he had little time for his son. But there’s something Steve is missing, something has been triggered tonight, and tonight Tony is thinking about his mother.

“My dad was a drunk,” Tony says again “he was, he was bad, Steve, when he got drunk,” Tony says softly “I was out, most of it. I was at school, at college. But I came home for holidays, when I was younger. Didn’t see much of him, except for when,” Tony swallows “like I said.” He finishes “He was a drunk.”

Tony heaves a breath, fingers dancing over the keys but never quite pressing down. “But my mother,” he sighs “she had a problem. A _real_ problem. She was too young to be married to a man like him. And I think she always had some… issues.”

“Issues?”

Tony waves a hand. “Jarvis told me after she died that there was some severe post-partum depression. I understand that, now,” he hiccups “looking back, I mean. When I was younger I just… I didn’t get why my mother didn’t love me.” He clears his throat. “She did, obviously. A lot. But she didn’t know how to, she was a stubborn woman. It’s complicated,” he says quickly “and she had good days and bad days. On good days, she taught me this. And on bad ones…” Tony’s hand scrabbles for the bottle “whatever.” He finishes.

“She shouldn’t be forgotten.” Steve says quietly.

“No,” Tony sighs, tiredly. “She shouldn’t. But she will.”

“Not if you don’t let her.”

“Yeah well, I try.” Tony says, brusquely.

They sit in silence, for a while. Tony drinks. Steve feels the piano under his fingers.

“My dad was an alcoholic,” he says, mildly.

Tony looks up. “I’m sorry.” He says, and he sounds honest, genuinely apologetic, as if it’s something he can fix.

Steve’s lips quirk. “Yeah, he was,” Steve exhales, a short breath, look down. He rubs his nose, briefly, and finds he can’t quite meet Tony’s eyes. “He was an alcoholic. Lot’s of reasons, I reckon. And I don’t blame him, either.”

“Yeah well,” Tony turns back to the piano “you’re a better man than me.”

“No,” Steve reasons “I just always had my ma— my mom. I always had my mom. And she always cared.”

Tony’s eyes go glassy. “That’s what moms are supposed to do,” he says, fingering the keys. “My mom cared,” he whispered “I think. She just couldn’t… it wasn’t her fault.” He says, voice hoarse, looking down. 

“And your dad?” Steve pushes.

Tony’s face darkens in the polished black reflection. “I would blame him.” He says “He ruined her life. He—” Tony breaks off. “I don’t care,” Tony says, and he turns in his seat “what his excuse was. He wants to drown his sorrows? Fine. So do I, join the fucking club.” Tony spits, eyes vehement. “But don’t bring your partner down with you. Don’t treat your family like shit.” Tony frowns, hands rubbing at his temples. He gasps, squeezes his eyes tight.

“You okay?” Steve says cautiously and Tony hangs his head.

“Migraine.” He says softly. “I… I drank too much.”

Steve wonders if Tony would view his problem with alcohol as similar to his fathers. He seems so ready to blame him; that being said, Howard Stark was not a perfect man. It's hard to reconcile the image Steve has of him with the picture Tony paints, although it doesn't surprise him. Howard saw too much. He made weapons to kill people. It effected him, he turned to drink, and he took it out on his family.

He wonders if Howard had ever hit his wife. Maria. Or maybe Tony. Strangely, he doesn't doubt that the man loved his son. Or at least, that he  _cared_ about him in some respect. It's just that he knows what drink can do to a man, how it can turn them. Even a man like Howard.

Or a man like Tony.

He turns back to the piano.

“Maybe you should stop?” Steve suggests, carefully.

“Maybe,” Tony says “sure. What’s the point, though. I always get straight back on anyhow.”

Always. He’s tried before, then.

Tony’s fingers ready themselves to moves across the keys once more, but then he stalls.

“Am I him?” He blurts “Am I turning into him?”

Steve frowns. Thinks.

“No,” he says softly. “I don’t think you’re selfish.”

“Really?” Tony says, and his voice cracks.

“No,” Steve says again “you could never be him.”

Tony’s fingers ready themselves, poised over crisp white and contrasting black. 

He rolls his wrists.

His back straightens.

He fingers set about another piece, soft, gentle, played from rote memory.

As the sun sets, Tony plays. New York fades in the distance, dappled sun sinking low beneath a lost horizon to be replaced by bright lights. 

Shadows dance over Tony’s face as Steve watches the man he loves.

The man that he _loves_.

The room grows dark.

It’s sad.

But maybe hopeful, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always had this ridiculous curiosity about Maria Stark like WHO IS SHE, WHERE DID SHE COME FROM, idk, writing about the Stark family gives me so many plot bunnies because the idea that Tony actually had a family??? Like, real people who raised him??? I've got a big story coming up that's gonna incorporate them, definitely.


	6. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING FOR NSFW lol 'warning'

“Tony, can I ask you a question?”

Tony looks up, briefly, from the tablet he’d been staring at. “What?” He asks, brusquely.

Steve dips his paintbrush into the palette and draws it around the swirling blue. “What’s your favourite colour?”

Tony frowns. “Why?”

“I’m painting, shut up and answer the question, don’t ruin the _moment._ ”

Tony snorts. “Orange.” He says casually, turning back to his screen.

Steve blinks and looks up. “What.”

“What?”

“That’s… that’s your favourite colour.”

“Yes?”

“Not red? Or blue?”

“No, why would those be my — who are you, the colour nazi? What does it matter?”

Steve spins on his stool and stares at him. “I just, your suit is red.”

“Well it couldn’t very well be bright orange, could it Steve?”

Steve claps his leg. “Of course,” he says “I just remembered that red and gold wasn’t actually very ostentatious, so.”

“Red and gold are _classy,”_ Tony answers, putting down his tablet. “Red and gold is, it’s like _royalty._ ”

“If the royal family were, you know, strippers.”

“What strippers have _you_ been visiting, Steve?”

He sucks his teeth. “Funny, Tony.”

“No please, enlighten me.”

Steve turns back on his stool. “Rent boys, actually.”

“Ah, that’s more like it,” Tony snorts to himself. “Paragon of virtue my fucking ass.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Steve mutters.

“What?” Tony says, sharply.

Steve looks up, and he smirks. “I said, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He hears the tablet being carefully lowered to the table. “Oh?” Tony says.

“Me, fucking your ass.”

Silence, and Steve turns.

Tony is staring at him, and he’s still. His head it tilted to the side, his chin pressed out, almost considering. “I didn’t know you swung that way.”

“I swing both ways.”

“Interesting.”

“You think?”

“Definitely,” he twitches his nose, crosses his arms. “Tell me more.”

Steve sucks his teeth. “Well,” he says “I’m gonna fuck you, no doubt about that.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Steve repeats, putting down his paint brush. “I think I would start by stripping you.”

“Fast or slow?”

“Slow. Very slow.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Continue.”

“I’d strip you real slow. Maybe teeth would be involved, I’m not sure yet.”

Tony sits forward in his chair.

“And then you would help me get out of these clothes.”

“Can I interrupt, for a second?”

“Go ahead.”

“Will we be taking this somewhere else? Or are we keeping it in here?”

Steve considers. “I would strip you here,” he says “and then I would kiss you. Hard, and you would fist your hands in my hair.”

“Uh huh.” Tony says, unimpressed.

“And you’d be hard. You would be pressed up against that table, right there,” Steve points with his brush, paint flecking the carpet. “And I’d lift my knee just so, just the right amount of pressure for you to gasp into my mouth.”

“… Continue.”

“Then,” Steve sighs, standing and brushing down his clothes “then, I’d let you rut like that, for a while. get nice and riled up.”

“You like that?”

“I would be in control, so.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Definitely. And you’d like it.”

Tony steps closer. “Fine.” He says. “What happens next in your sick little fantasy?”

Steve crosses his arms and gestures with his chin. “We walk down that corridor — ”

“Clothes strewn across the carpet?”

“ — clothes strewn across the carpet. And we’d get to your room.”

“Not yours?”

“I like the idea of fucking you into your own sheets, actually.”

“Fair enough.”

“And then — wait, do you have lube?”

“Plenty.”

“Great. So, I push you down onto the sheets, and you’re all sweaty and half-fucked already — ”

“What about you?”

Steve considers. “I’m about a semi.”

Tony makes a face. “No, you’re not. You’ve got a fully upstanding cock by this point, Captain. Your cock is gonna be an upstanding member of our community.”

“Interesting metaphor.”

“Thank you, continue.”

Steve smirks, closing some of the distance between them so they’re about three foot apart. “So, we’re _both_ fully erect at this point — ”

Tony shivers. “Ooh. _Erect._ ”

Steve grins again. “ — and you’re half-way to coming — ”

“No, I’m _looking_ half fucked, don’t change your mind.”

“Point being, you’re pretty debauched.”

“Nice use of language.”

“And your all sprawled out on your sheets. Out of interest, are they cotton or silk?”

“Silk, obviously.” 

“Nice,” Steve says “stuffed with feathers?”

“I wouldn’t dare use anything else.”

Steve shivers, because the idea of Tony stretched out, aching, soft feathered sheets plush around him and moulded to his body while he sweats on slick silk sheets —

“And?” Tony prompts.

“And then you’d get onto your belly.”

“So you’re gonna take me from behind?”

“Take you? I like _that._ ”

“Again, with the language. You’re getting distracted.”

“So, here’s how it’s gonna happen. I’m going to lift up your ass so you’re nice and presented for me, okay? And you’re gonna be all squirmy and desperate, but not to a point that you’ll admit it.”

“I would literally never admit that.”

“We’ll see. Anyway, your hips are pressed up, and I get my hands, and I gently spread you wide, right? Wide enough that your tight little hole is stretched white.”

Steve sees the micro movements of Tony’s fingers against his chest. Where they twist in his material of his shirt. He swallows.

“And then I’m gonna fuck you with my tongue. Actually, at this point I’ve gotta ask, you are clean, right?”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“Clean? No crazy STD’s to worry about.”

Tony blinks rapidly again, swallowing. “Uh, no. No. You can continue.”

Steve smiles to himself. “Right. So I start fucking in and out of your with my tongue. I’m imagining that you’re pretty ticklish, and the feel of my tongue in your ass is driving your crazy. I lick all the way from your balls up to your cleft and then swirl my tongue around your hole. _Then,_ I _suck._ ”

Tony’s eyelids flicker. “Go on.”

“You want to fist your cock, but I won’t let you. I’m holding both of your wrists back so you can’t get away and you just have to sit there and take it.”

Tony’s eyes actually slide closed, and Steve takes the opportunity to shift closer. “By this point, you want to get to the main event. You’re all ready to just spread your legs and get my cock inside you.”

“But?” Tony breathes, eyes still shut but eyebrows raised, breath ghosting over Steve’s lips.

“But now I’m gonna really get you wide. One finger, nice and slow. I’ll really rile you up, just rub it over your sweet spot for a while, and just when you think you can’t take it, I’ll add another finger. Scissor them, get you spread.”

Tony blinks very slowly. “Have you done this before?”

“Multiple times. Although they didn’t have lube back in France.”

“Brilliant.”

“After I’ve stretched you wide enough: three fingers, just to be on the safe side. I want you to be nice and slick so there’s no trouble if maybe I want you to ride me later.”

Tony frowns. “How much thought have you put into this, Rogers?”

“Enough.” He says simply, looking down at Tony. “Are you… _liking_ it, so far?”

Tony tilts his head. His lips quirk.

“I didn’t tell you to stop, Captain.”

Steve smiles.

“Now, you’re nice and stretched. Easily fuckable.”

Tony’s spine arches, slightly, almost instinctively. He leans closer.

“And I line up with your hole, and I press in, real slow but _real_ deep. I’m barely moving, and you’re just sitting there, filled with my cock. You can’t bear it.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. His breathing deepens.

“I ask you to beg, and you tell me to go fuck myself. Slowly, I draw out. You try to clench back round me, but it’s too late. And I push back in, not enough for you, I’m barely skimming you, no where near your sweet spot.”

“Are… _you_ enjoying it?”

“I’m loving it. You keep clenching down round the head of my cock, desperate to get me deeper.”

“Interesting.”

“At this point, I lean over you, you push your head back, and I kiss you again. Very, very deeply. I slip two fingers into your ass and work you up all over again, until your moaning into my mouth. Then — ” he holds up a hand when Tony tries to interrupt “ — then, I take your cock in my free hand, start to build you up. You want me to keep going, you want to come. So I stop, and I line up again, and I fuck into you, this time deep, and this time fast.”

“You can’t take it. You keel forward. I have one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your balls and you’re _gasping_ into the sheets, you can’t hold yourself up anymore. I fuck into you again, and again, and again, and you’re starting to ache, you’re flat out against your pillows and by now I think you’re drooling, because you’re just focused on the pleasure, nothing else, you’re letting yourself go completely.”

“Steve — ”

“After that, I don’t even touch your cock. You can come just from me fucking your ass. It takes awhile but you’re on edge the whole time, it’s one of the slowest builds you’ve ever had, the pleasure is slow and easy in your belly, and you can feel it tingling through you, growing and growing, and you’re just maxed out on pleasure, drooling and shivering into the sheets. You keep clenching around me and I’m holding back, just so I can fuck you through the aftershocks. You’re on the edge of coming, you just need that extra push, but I’m fucking you so slowly that you can’t get it, you’re just not able to tip over even though you’re _so close — ”_

“I — ”

“And _then_ you start to beg. I bet you don’t even realise you’re doing it, you just open your mouth and try to do what you can to get me to work faster, to get you that push you need to let the pleasure grow to that point in your belly where you’re coming and you can’t stop, and I’m still fucking you. You beg, you say ‘please,’ or ‘Steve,’ or ‘ _fuck me,’_ and I take you harder, faster, and one hand down your cock and your gone. Tony, you will be so _lost_ in pleasure you won’t know what _day_ it is, I can see your eyes rolling back into your head, and you’re clenching tight around me, and your thighs weaken so you can barely hold yourself up, so I take your hips and I fuck you until I spill into your ass — ”

Steve blinks.

Tony is staring at him. 

“Good?” He asks, voice hoarse.

Tony nods. “Good.” he says.

And then he kisses him.

 

* * *

Later, they’re lying in Tony’s come-stained goose-down silk sheets. Steve’s blinking slowly, staring up the ceiling.

Tony is beside him, eyes fixed somewhere above his head, mouth slack and panting.

“So,” Tony says finally, voice a wreck “that was.”

“It was.” Steve agrees.

“I liked the part where — ”

“So did I.”

“Ten out of ten.” Tony says. “Would fuck again.”

“Gladly.”

Tony pushes himself up, resting his weight on his arms behind his back. “You would?”

“Is that, are you surprised?”

Tony shrugs. “Okay. No, I mean. Okay.”

Steve frowns. “You sound surprised.”

“I just sodomised Captain America, could you give me a second?”

“Technically it was the other way round.”

Tony shakes his head in disbelief. And then he sits up, puts his head in his hands. “Oh God.” He groans.

“What’s wrong?” Steve says, voice more tender. “Are you, was it okay? Was it too much?”

“No,” Tony says, into his hands “it, it wasn’t too much.”

Steve rests his chin on Tony’s shoulders and brings his arms around to hold him tight, pressed flush against his back. “Then what?” He asks softly.

Tony huffs, letting his head fall back onto Steve’s shoulder. “I just need a few seconds.”

Steve traces the skin of Tony’s chest with his fingers, lightly scraping his nails across flushed flesh. “Take your time.” He whispers into Tony’s ear, and the other man shivers.

Steve presses kisses along his throat, up behind the sensitive skin behind his ear. He tugs his hand down the delicate hairs on the nape of his neck. Gently, his swirls his fingers there as Tony breathes softly.

“Okay,” he murmurs “okay.” 

Tony stands, suddenly, walking to the window. It’s dark out, and he’s naked, but no one will see him. Not from up here.

He braces one hand on the window, the other on his head. “God,” he whispers.

“Tony?” Steve pulls back the covers “Tony, what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, mute.

“Hey,” Steve says, slipping behind him “hey, Tony. Please.”

“You would sleep with me again?” Tony says, voice low, hoarse.

“Yes,” Steve says instantly, whispering it against his skin.

“You want that? You would — ”

“I want you.” Steve breathes into his ear.

“Me?”

“I love you, Tony.”

The other man stares out the window, tracking the haze of light that starts at the bottom of the sky.

“You love me,” he repeats, murmuring.

“For so long,” Steve purrs “I have loved you for so, so long.”

Tony takes his hand. He pulls it so it rests over the place the arc reactor once sat.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” Steve whispers.

Tony looks back out at the night sky. “The sun is rising.” He murmurs.

 

* * *

Steve gasps awake to an empty bed and sunlight.

It had —

He had been dreaming. Another dream.

He sighs, rolling over onto his back. He hates it. He hates those visions. The one’s he knows will never come true.

But the feel of Tony. He can still picture it, picture him under his tongue, his fingers, writhing around his cock. So real. So _vivid._

It’s no use. It’s no good, being this way. He needs to forget and move on. Fine someone else, anyone else. Another woman. He _knows_ there are women who would want him, it’s just about finding the right one.

Someone small, curvy. Blonde, dirty blonde. Brown, a brunette. Pouting lips, yes, and red nails, large breasts and perfect eyes, doe eyes, wide and framed with thick lashes, hair shorter, maybe, framing her face, and —

Tony. It’s still Tony.

Steve rolls out of bed with a hankering to paint.

 

* * *

“Tony,” he says “can I ask you question?”

The man puts down his tablet. “What?”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

Tony frowns, mouth twisting. He looks from Steve’s painting to the window.

“Blue.” He says, and turns back to his work.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for being shitty and leaving this for a million years (two months)


	7. Astronaut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for panic attacks

“On behalf of Stark Industries and the Maria Stark foundation, we are happy to welcome you here to the first annual Coney Island benefit for the children of the Inner City Hope project!”

Pepper Potts is standing on a podium, lit up by bright lights and musical clangings. A ferris wheel with the Stark logo illuminates especially brightly, it’s light dappling over the water.

Tony is beside him. All the Avengers are. They’re here to mill around, say hi to kids, bring up the publicity, get all the money rolling in. It’s a personal project of Tony’s, apparently, one that’s been in the works for years, because you don’t just get to _rent_ the Coney Island fair out to anyone on short notice.

Children from deprived families. Children who can’t pay for college. Children who take drugs, children who smoke, children who drink. Last week, Steve met a fourteen year old with wide eyes and a bolshy grin whose hands shook because he was going through withdrawal. There was a twenty-one year old girl, the cut-off age for aide, who said that she wouldn’t be alive if the project hadn’t paid for her rehabilitation.

Another story, a young man who couldn’t afford college. Now, he’s one year down at Stanford and has a free ride scholarship for next year.

Steve allows himself to look at Tony, who’s staring respectfully at his old girlfriend, hands in his suit pockets. It’s dark out, but Steve can make out the shadows on his face from the bright, colourful lights.

Tony spots him. He looks at him, smiles, then turns back to Pepper.

Steve doesn’t feel hurt. Why would he? What reason is there? He’s over Tony, anyway. There’s no point chasing after something you can’t have.

But then a kid walks up to them and he tugs at Tony’s jacket and the man looks down in surprise and the little boy asks for an autograph and Tony just smiles and crouches down and takes his paper and asks his name and signs it and ruffle the boys hair and the kid looks so _happy_ and even Tony is smiling slightly when he straightens and Steve realises that he is not over him _at all._

“What?” He murmurs, staring back, trying to wipe the smile from his face. “Uh,” he clears his throat “eyes forward, Captain.”

Steve loves him so much it _hurts._

Oh God. He’s in too deep.

Up on the stage, Pepper is still talking, her hair cut short in a new bob. She looks good. Very good. _Glowing._ It’s putting Tony on edge. After everything that happened, after that break-up, it seems —

It’s almost like an insult for him. To see his ex up on stage happy and fine and not falling apart at the seams.

It’s none of Steve’s business obviously. He’s just the guy who had to pick up the pieces.

Beside him, Natasha leans forward, whispering something in Tony’s ear. He snorts, slightly, and Steve wishes that could be him. That he could swat Tony on the back of the head and he would laugh and it’s wouldn’t be _awful._

Instead, though, he joins the applause when Pepper cuts the ribbon and when giggling kids from state homes run into the park. It’s better not to think about it. How often does he get to do stuff like this? He sees two little girls whispering and pointing from behind a trash can and he smiles, raising a hand. They blink, and scream, and then run off.

Steve chuckles softly. It’s not the first time. The kids don’t know what to do when they meet them, the Avengers. It must be weird, seeing your idol. Steve doesn’t really get it, because when he was a kid, his idol was his mom.

Tony is laughing beside him. “God,” he says “they’re fucking cute.”

“You think so?” Steve say, walking beside him.

“Yeah, it’s sweet,” Tony says, flipping his phone and stuffing it in his pocket. “Irritating, but sweet.”

Steve thinks for a second. “So you never wanted kids, then?”

Tony purses his lips. “Why don’t you ask Pepper.”

Steve blinks. “Oh Jesus. Is that why? Shit, seriously?”

Tony huffs, but he smiles. “It’s fine. Difference of opinion.”

Steve waits while Tony reconfigures his brain, hears the screams of children riding a twister, sees the moon high in the sky. The atmosphere is tangible. There’s something in the air.

“So you… _didn’t_ want kids?”

Tony sighs. “Something like that. Do you want candy floss? I’m gonna get some candy floss.”

Steve is distracted when Tony literally nabs the closest pink fluffy cloud and shoves it into Steve’s hands, taking one for himself and pushing the bills onto the counter.

Steve tastes and shudders. It’s sweet, maybe too sweet, and it’s reminds him of different times.

Because suddenly he’s not with Tony, or the Avengers, and it’s not night. It’s sunny, and warm, and the rides are new. 

Bucky is by his side.

They’re sharing the candy floss. They could only afford the one.

They split it evenly, Steve remembers, and when Steve had finished his Bucky gave him the rest because he said it was gonna make him sick otherwise and Steve could do with extra.

Except then he’d made him ride the Cyclone, and he’d thrown up

“ — eve?” Tony’s saying, confusion in his eyes “hey, do you not like it? I can, I can get another, they have bubblegum — ”

“Bubblegum?” Steve blurts, like word vomit, because Tony’s talking about _bubblegum,_ that word just came from his lips, why on earth would Tony Stark be talking about _bubblegum?_

“Yes,” Tony repeats slowly “bub-ble-gum.”

“Bubblegum.” Steve says again.

“Are you brain damaged?” Tony says, raising an eyebrow “Yes, Steve, bubblegum. Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He says quickly, and he takes a large mouthful of sugar as if to prove his point. “Fine.” He says again, when the pink stuff is sticky on his fingers and stuck on his nose.

Tony stares at him incredulously. “You’ve, uh,” he points at his nose. “You know.”

Steve blinks. “What?”

Tony shifts, slightly, checks left and right and then raises his finger to quickly swipe the candy off his nose. “You had, uh.” He clears his throat. “There was something. On your nose.”

Steve slowly comes back to himself.

Tony won’t look him in the eye.

Silence.

“Heeello.” Someone says, and then it’s Clint, and he slaps Tony hard on the shoulder so that the tension cracks and then shatters like glass around them. “Hey big boy, just wondering if, by virtue of my status as protector of the realm, I get to ride free?”

Tony shucks his hands off, flaps him away. “Free is for kids, Barton. It’s a charity event, adults can pay.”

“Right, what I mean is that you’ll be paying, right?”

“My money is not your personal piggy bank.”

Clint steps back, offended. “Mr Stark,” he says, shocked “it’s for _charity!”_

“Go fuck yourself, Clinton.”

“I’m actually taking that as a yes, so."

Tony looks around. “Who are you even going around with? Are you by yourself?”

“I was here with someone, _actually,”_ Clint says, looking around “but I’m pretty sure she ditched me for free tickets on the wheel.”

“Brilliant,” Tony says, suddenly disinterested “have fun, Clint, please don’t scare the kiddies.”

Clint slaps him on the back one last time. “Have a good date.” He grins, and he winks at Steve who feels heat prickle at the back of his neck.

Tony makes a non-committal noise and frowns, squinting at his phone. “That’s not right.” He murmurs.

“What?” Steve says, happy to change the subject.

Tony waves him off. “Nothing!” he says brightly. “You wanna try one of those shooting things? I’m aiming for at least one massive teddy by end of the night.”

Steve allows himself to smile. “You’re like a kid in grown-up suits.”

“One, only children say ‘grown-up’ so I think _you’re_ obviously the real child here, two, most kids don’t wear Versace.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna pretend I know what that is and _rebound_ your statement by telling you that I’m pretty sure rich kids do.”

“This is true,” Tony concedes “but they don’t wear it as well as me.”

“North West eat your heart out.”

“Yes!” Tony says, spinning, finger hitting Steve in the middle of his chest. “I knew it. I fucking knew it, you’ve been watching Kim K, haven’t you. Was it Natasha? Please tell me it was Natasha, I’ve been trying to get something on her for _weeks._ ”

“Firstly, yes, secondly no, and thirdly I was told it was a good place to go for catch-up on the changing social times, so.”

“Who would have thought Kim Kardashian is your go-to girl for sociology. Nice, Steve. Classy.”

Steve considers. “Bit rich coming from the guy eating candy floss in a $3,000 suit.”

“At my charity fundraiser! Yes!” Tony says, slapping bills down onto the brightly lit counter “it is very fucking classy.”

“Nice work on this, by the way,” Steve says, leaning against the stall.

“I’m putting the ‘fun’ in fundraiser.” Tony dead-pans, lifting the gun.

“Damn straight,” Steve grins “but really. It is good. These kids… it’s good.”

Tony hums softly, aiming. “Yeah, well,” he says putting the gun down and filling it with more rubber bullets “got to give to those who haven’t had the same opportunities and all.”

“Same opportunities as you?” Steve asks, curious.

“Obviously.” Tony says, wincing as the the bullet misses the can by a mile.

“You’re shit at this.” Steve says bluntly.

“It’s rigged!”

“Yeah right,” Steve snorts “give it to me.”

Steve aims, and fires, and the bullet flies off in the opposite direction.

“What the f — ”

“ — fudge?” Tony says as two giggling kids go ambling past. “I know. It’s made to work against you. The gun’s barrel’s been dented, I would know.”

Steve sighs. “Of course you would. There’s five dollars down the drain.”

“Five dollars that will fund some kids rehabilitation, or school, or whatever.” Tony counters. “Five dollars well spent.”

“You’re really into this, aren’t you?”

Tony blinks. “Into what?”

“Charity.”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t know. To be this rich and… _not_ be into charity is probably a sign of sociopathy. Or greediness. Although to be honest I know from experience that generally once you reach the level of greediness that you’re _not_ willing to give money to underprivileged kids you’re probably a sociopath by default.”

“Interesting theory.”

“Not a theory,” Tony says, fumbling around his pockets “I see it everyday. I was one of them, once.”

Steve stops. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Stupid?” Tony says lightly. “Not a word normally used in conjunction with me, but okay.”

“You were never one of those men.”

“What, a capitalist industrialist with little thought for anyone other than myself uh, yes, I was. Keep up with the times, Captain.”

He makes to leave but Steve stops him with a hand on his arm. “No, you weren’t. Because men like that don’t do what you’ve done.”

“Men like that generally don’t spend three months in an Afghan cave.”

“Men like that,” Steve says forcefully “spend three months in an Afghan cave and then pledge billions to destroy the entire country. _That’s_ what men like that do.”

Tony waves a hand. “Variables.”

Steve makes an irritated noise. “Don’t be stupid, Tony.”

“I’m not.” He says simply. “You just need to face facts.”

“Face facts?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes.” Tony says simply. “That I might not be the man you think I am.”

Steve pauses. “Why does it matter what kind of man _I_ think you are.”

Tony’s eyes narrow. “Just in case, Captain, you start getting any other ideas.”

“About what kind of man you are.”

“Exactly.”

Silence.

“I don’t think you need to worry about that, Tony.”

He snorts. “Okay.” Tony sighs, and then he slumps. “Fine. I’m gonna get me a giant teddy, are you coming or what?”

“You’re not gonna win a teddy.” Steve says simply, tension dissolving.

“You’re such a downer, Steve.”

“Says Mr ‘I’m an evil piece of capitalist scum’.”

“Touché.” Tony says, mouth twisting down. “Very well done, I think — wait, there, that’s mine.”

Tony hooks his fingers into Steve’s, dragging him over to the hoopla. At the back of the stall there’s a bear, huge, massive, roughly the same height and girth of an endangered giant panda.

Tony’s eyes light up.

“Hold this,” he says to Steve, giving him candy floss. “I’ve got a bear to win.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Are you joking? Is this a joke?”

“Does this look like the face of a man who’s joking?” Tony says, thumbing through his wallet. He drags out two fifty dollar bills. “How many throws does this get me?” He asks the man at the stall.

“Mr Stark,” the man blinks “Mr Stark, you can play for free.”

“Yeah, but it kinda defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?"

“Mr Stark, there’s no way I can accept this money. No one’s managed to win that bear.”

“I’ve killed aliens, Sir, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

The man shakes his head in disbelief. “If you insist,” he says “it’s a dollar a go. But Mr Stark, really, there’s no way you’ll — ”

“What do you have to do to win?” He says, slipping his wallet back into his pocket.

“The rings have to go around the cans three times, including _that_ one,” the man says, pointing at the can on the shelf furthest away.

“Excellent.” Tony says. “I hope you don’t mind waiting?” He pouts, turning towards Steve.

“Imagine what I could be doing if I wasn’t.”

“I know,” Tony says “think of all the money you could be scammed out of if you didn’t have streetwise Tony Stark to show you the way.

“Street wise?” Steve snorts at Tony misses the first can. “Sure, Tony, sure. Fifth Avenue doesn’t count, by the way.”

“Damn,” Tony frowns “and for the record, I didn’t live on fifth avenue.”

Steve squints. “You showed me the mansion.”

“I stayed there about two weeks a year, on average. Probably less.” Tony admits.

“Where did you live?”

“School. College. Uh,” he clears his throat “I was in L.A. for a while, with a friend. Then… other places. I didn’t move to Malibu till I was, what, twenty-four, maybe? I don’t know, it’s hard to keep track.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It wasn’t.” Tony says shortly. 

There’s an awkward pause and Tony’s hoop misses another can. “Sorry.” He says. “I didn’t mean that to sound so — ”

“It’s fine.” Steve says quickly. “So, Inner City Hope project.”

Tony sighs, managing to lock one can down. “Yeah,” he says “yeah. Inner City Hope. Hope for kids in the inner city. That’s what it’s all about.”

“It’s good,” Steve says again “I mean it, Tony. I know when…” he shrugs “when I was a kid it would have been good to have some hope.”

“Oh yeah?” Tony says, and he looks at him from the corner of his eyes as he throws a hoop. “What did you hope for, Rogers?”

Steve makes a face. “Food.”

Tony snorts. “Okay. That’s a hope. But you must of had like, a dream, or something. Every kid has one.”

Steve thinks. “Financial stability.”

Tony puts his head in his hand. “Oh my God, Steve, you are just so much fun to have around.”

“It’s true!”

“I know,” Tony sighs “I know. I just — it’s strange to think of.”

“What?”

“To think of you. On the streets. Starving, or cold, or whatever. I don’t know.”

Steve pauses. Okay then.

Tony isn’t looking at him. He’s just throwing, not even thinking about it, just sinking every hoop he throws, studiously ignoring him.

Steve clears his throat. “I mean, I was gonna have a job I enjoyed.” He starts.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I was gonna be an artist. Nothing, you know, spectacular. I didn’t want to be Monet. Just… enough to earn a steady income.”

Tony continues throwing, but it’s obvious he’s still listening.

“And I’d graduate.” Steve inhales. “Meet a… a girl. We’d settle down. I’d be well off, you know? I’d have enough money to support all of us very comfortably. And we’d have kids. Three, two boys, one girl. And a dog, too.”

Steve sees Tony’s fingers shake, slightly. He continues.

“A nice house. Strong, sturdy. A home. My mom would,” Steve has to pause to clear his throat “she would live with us. Bucky, too, if he didn’t have his own family to take care of. And then we’d get old. I’d be able to send all my kids to college. I’d retire. The children would move on. They’d have their own families. Grandkids. Christmases and Easters and Christenings. It would be good.”

“What kind of kid has a dream like that?”

“A kid who never had any of that.”

Tony makes a face. “I didn’t. I never wanted — ” He stops himself. “What about during the war? What did you want then?”

Steve exhales. “Same thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Except — ” Steve breaks off. “You know the, uh, the worst thing? If I had… survived. Survived the war, survived everything, then I know that dream was going to be a reality. So there would be tweaks, fine. I wouldn’t be an artist and my wife would be in the army, so what? I would have the money. I could have the home. Respect. A family.”

“But you didn’t survive.”

“No,” Steve says “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Tony murmurs, scratching the wood of the hoop. “It’s a nice dream.”

Steve thinks. “Yeah.” He says. “It was. But you know what? It’s not worth it. The whole dreams not worth it. Because if that had come true, then I wouldn’t be here. On Coney Island, in 2015, playing hoopla with Howard Stark’s son.”

“I’m not sure it quite equates.”

“It’s worth it.” Steve says. “Trust me.”

Instead of letting Tony process what that means, Steve asks him a question.

“Your dream?”

Tony makes a noise of frustration as his hoop misses the mark _again._ “So close.” He mumbles.

“Tony?” Steve prods.

“Uh, right,” Tony says “didn’t have one.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Okay. Sure.”

“No, I mean it.” Tony says “I didn’t,” he clears his throat “I didn’t have one. Definitely not.”

He begins sinking throws.

“To quote a good friend of mine, ‘ _every kid has one_?’”

Tony laughs, a high, thready, reedy sound. His hoop misses the can and nearly hits the attendant in the back of the head. “Nope. No, I knew, straight from the uh,” he sucks in a breath “straight from the start what I was gonna do.”

“So every kid has one, except for Tony Stark, who was obviously too clever and far too advanced to ever give in to such childish fantasies?”

Tony smiles tightly and a hoop hits the ground. He’d barely thrown it. “I think I might, uh, I think I wanted to be an astronaut. Can’t — can’t quite remember.”

He tries to throw another but his hand comes to press at his neck. “I think — ”

“Tony?” Steve murmurs “Are you okay?”

“I keep,” he swallows “I keep missing the cans.”

“Tony — ”

He slumps, hands resting on the counter, he breathes in, and out, hard, sucking in deep breaths.

“Let me — ”

“ _No,”_ Tony says, maybe too forcefully. “No. I’m fine. I’m good. Gotta win this teddy, so.”

“You can’t breathe.”

“I can breathe, get away from me.” He snaps, inhaling sharply.

Steve takes a step back. “Okay,” he says slowly “I’m not pressing anything.”

Tony’s eyes are hard, but then he looks away. “Fuck.” He mutters. “Fuck.”

Tony’s fingers clench on the counter. Instinctively, Steve shifts, covering him from anyone that might be watching.

The bright lights, the discordant music, the screaming. It must be hard to take in.

Gently, he rests a hand on Tony’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Tony hisses, and his voice crackles.

“Tony, I just want you to breathe with me.”

“I can’t.” He says behind his teeth, eye clenched shut “I c-can’t — ”

“Open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Tony, open your eyes.”

“What part,” another breath sucked in “what part of ‘can’t’ d-don’t you _fucking understand —_ ”

“If you don’t open your eyes you won’t know what’s real.” Steve says quietly, because he knows only too well what’s going on in Tony’s head right now, and he knows well enough how to make it stop. “Just open your eyes and look at me.”

“I _can’t._ ” Tony says, and his fingers curl on the counter “I fucking, I, fuck, what — ”

He starts gasping. In and out, in and out, and Steve gently leads him to the dark space behind the stall, lets him sink to the ground, back pressed against the red and white curtain where no one can see them.

“Tony,” Steve murmurs, crouching down in front of him “can you breathe with me?”

“The screaming,” he gasps “I don’t know — ”

“Open your eyes.”

“But it might be — ”

“Open your eyes.”

“I d-don’t know — ”

“Tony,” Steve says quietly “if you trust me, Steve Rogers, Captain America, at all, even a little, then you will _open your eyes._ ”

Tony slowly inches his first eye open. Then he waits, breathing heavily.

“Tony.” Steve says.

He lets his eyelids slide up, blinking. He feels the wood of the pier beneath him.

“Oh,” he says, dazed “oh that makes sense.”

“Do you want something?” Steve asks “Water, some food?”

Tony blinks. “Steve.”

“Tony.”

“So thinking about space fucks me up.”

“I see that now.”

“But for the record, I wanted to be an astronaut.”

Steve nods. “Sounds like you.”

“Right?” Tony says, sighing. “Uh.”

“So, I’m going to help you up,” Steve says.

“And we’re going to pretend this never happened?”

“No. We’re going to win that teddy.”

“Sounds like,” Tony huffs. “Sounds like a plan.”

Steve waits. “Are you… coming? Or — ”

“I’m good here for a while.” Tony gulps, waves a hand. “Nothing to worry about. You go, I’ll be just fine.”

“Can you stand?”

“Uh.”

“Your knees are probably wobbling, right?”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“You get snappy when you’re scared.”

“Me and 90% of the world’s population.”

“I’m going to lift you up now.”

“Great.”

Steve holds out his hand.

Tony sighs, takes it, tight, and he’s warm, sweaty. Steve can feel mild callouses under his palm.

“So it’s probably best if we don’t mention this to anyone else,” Steve says, yanking him up “I know how you feel about — oof.”

Tony’s lips are pressed to Steve’s. Like, right on Steve’s lips. And Tony is hot and his mouth is wet and when he kisses his mouth tastes vaguely of some kind of spirit and cotton candy.

“Sorry,” Tony says, breaking away, panting. “Sorry, don’t know what came over me. Adrenalin, must be adrenalin.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, nodding vigorously “must be, must, must — ”

This time, he takes Tony, and he presses in deep, his hands fisting in the other man’s hair.

“We should,” Tony swallows air, “we should take this somewhere else.”

Steve blinks. “Shit, the bear. What about the bear.”

“The bear can wait?”

Steve nods. “The bear can wait.”

Tony giggles slightly and Steve leans back in for another kiss. Tony moans.

“Fuck,” he says “fuck I can’t believe this, what the fuck are we _doing — ”_

“Don’t think about it,” Steve says “don’t.” Because he loves Tony but he’s not entirely sure Tony loves him, and he doesn’t want to be another notch in his bedpost but he will be because he doesn’t think he’ll ever have it any other way with Tony, and that’s fine, that could be okay, as long as he has this night, just this one night.

One night. That’s all he needs. One night of Tony’s body under his, of sweat and come and hot, deep fucking while Tony writhes and sees all the pleasure Steve can give him.

Their going to do it. 

“The tower.” Tony blurts “Let’s go to the tower — ”

“Too far,” Steve almost whines “we can get a hotel.”

Tony snaps his fingers. “Hotel.” He says. “There’ll be lube.”

“Absolutely.” Steve says “Love lube, lots of lube.”

“Steve,” Tony says, and he draws him back down for a kiss “oh, _God,”_ he moans into his mouth.

“Yes, Tony,” Steve gasps “ _yes.”_

And then the lights go out.

For a moment, there’s silence.

No one moves.

A beep. A single, consistent noise, rippling out from somewhere over the ocean.

A red light.

And then the screaming begins.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY NOT SORRY
> 
> for the record, they will get it on in the last chapter. However, this story is tied in with Blue Lips, Blue Veins so most of their relationship will be covered there. There's a time gap between all these chapters, and the final one will be a few months after this event


	8. Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving this for a million years also warnings for drowning and non-graphic mention of a wound

The thing rises from the water, big, like, like, like a thing, that rises from the water.

Fuck, did Tony just do that? Did he just -- he just _kissed_ Steve Rogers.

Oh boy. Oh boy. He feels all tingly inside.

"Go," Steve hisses "run. Have you got a suit?"

Tony blinks. "Got a suit? _Got a suit?_ I'm at a _funfair,_ why the fuck would I have a -- "

Steve pushes him back, and Tony stumbles. "Run," he says "go. Evacuate the kids, move Tony, _now._ "

Tony stares at him, wondering why he's being so mean. And he hears the people screaming around him, hears the whine of -- that sounds like a repulser -- and sees the fear in Steve's eyes.

"Running," he says "right, got it. Gonna run. Gonna run, _now."_

The thing advances out of the water, a mechanoid structure of rusted, groaning metal and four thick limbs. It towers over the crowd, red lights on the underbelly flashing, and --

"Okay," Tony breathes "okay. Right," he spins, starting to run " _EVERYBODY OUT!_ COME ON, PLAY TIMES OVER, _THIS WAY!"_

He gets the crowds attention, and sees Steve disappear, most likely in the hopes of finding his team.

A flash of blue, and then he's gone.

Tony turns back to the stampeding crowd, jostled left and right, trying to find his footing. "Fuck," he mutters as one woman runs straight into him, knocking him to the ground.

The mechanoid continues to advance, and it lifts one massive, robotic leg, placing it precariously onto the wood of the pier.

Oh shit.

Tony hears, before he sees, the cracks in the wood. He screams, ' _run, go, quickly'_ but his words are lost in the rush of the crowd.

Their are kids here. There are _children._

Not thinking, and acting mostly of base instinct, he runs against the crowd, pushing them away, fingers searching for any child he can find, any child he can save. A little girl, no more than three, crying, bear in hand, and he scoops her up. 

"Right," he pants "right, you're coming with me."

Behind him, there's a massive crunching, and then splashing, as the first leg slaps it's way through the wood, bringing down the pier and amusements with it.  

The little girl in his arms cries.

"Hey!" He shouts "Hey you! Yeah, you!"

There's a boy, thirteen at most, pimply, gangly, baseball cap on backwards, but he's wearing a Captain America shirt and that's good enough for Tony. "Take her, _run,_ and don't look back, okay?"

The boy stares, petrified, but he nods, and runs with the little girl in his arms.

Tony turns back, and for the first time takes a good look at the thing in the sky. It tower above the pier on four metal legs, some kind of collapsing tech, obviously water proof, the hold at the top is most likely some kind of submarine. But who? Who has the means to do something like this, and do it _unnoticed?_

"NICE NIGHT FOR IT!" Clint shouts, running past with a team of six kids behind him.

Tony blinks, tries to take in the screams, the -- oh fuck, that's a fire, that's all they need. Everyone's running in the opposite direction, that's good, that's, keep doing that.

"Mr Stark!" Someone cries. "Mr Stark, please!"

Tony turns in the direction of the one, piercing voice, hears the small wail. Oh, no.

The little boy is crying, and he's tugging at Tony's hand, screaming, pointing. It takes too long for Tony to focus on the broken gazebo, on the little body sticking out.

Tony swallows, smoke burning his eyes. "Oh God, oh God, is she -- "

The little girl bangs her fists against the wood of the pier and tries to crawl free. "I'm not strong enough," the boy says "please, please lift her."

Tony hooks the wood, under his hands, lifts, and God, he was about to get fucked, he was going to go fuck Steve Rogers, and now he's helping children escape from the jaws of death.

"Go," he says, helping her up "both of you, quickly, run."

There's a sound, not unlike a horn and the thing up above stops it's advancement. Tony blinks, because for a moment, there's calm.

No sound. Nothing. Even the screaming drones out.

But then the vibrations. Thick, hard, one, then two, then three, and then --

The thing lifts it's leg, and it comes crashing through the pier, two feet away from Tony. 

He never stood a chance.

He goes crashing under before he has time to take a breath, and the ice of the water below rushes up to meet him.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Over his head, down his neck, it soaks his shirt and he reaches up, kicks, keeps calm and -- 

Shit, oh shit, his leg is caught under the wood, trapped under the sand, and two feet away, just two feet, he can see the metal of the leg of the _thing_ that's hooked into the sand, too close, too fucking close, any closer and he'll be crushed.

He's going to drown, because his leg is caught. That is for certain.

He was going to sleep with Steve. That was a thing he was definitely a thing that was going to happen. Fuck he was going to sleep with Captain America, and now --

There are other bodies falling into the water, but they're all able to kick free. Tony tries to grab at them, tries to explain that he's trapped, but that's hard when you're surrounded by liquid.

He clutches at this throat, because this has stopped being funny. He doesn't want to die like this, but he thinks he might. He holds one hand across his mouth, the other on his nose, _don't breathe in, don't breathe in, don't breathe in._

He tries again to wrench his leg free, wants to wrench his leg free.

He can feel his pulse beating in his ears.

Come on, Tony, come on. Not like this. Not like fucking this, come on, come --

He needs to breathe. He needs to breathe.

 

He feels the air rush from his lips, sees the bubbles.

No, no, fuck don't breathe, don't --

He's not entirely sure what happens next, but there's a shift, and wrench, and then the leg of the mechanoid draws up, up, up and it takes the wood with it.

The water presses down as the leg lifts up and Tony is able to push off the sand, quickly, desperate, head floating, whole body burning for --

He breathes, breathes in burnt, smoky air, sees the ruin of the pier and the thing still high in the sky. He coughs, splutters, fuck it's so cold he can't feel his fingers, and he tries to find a way back to safety, to Steve, maybe a thermal blanket.

He flips, twists in the water, panting, left, right, it's impossible to see, it's just smoke and burnt wood.

He coughs, water and smoke, and retches. How does he get out? Where does he go? The pier's gone, but he can't find the shore. The smoke's too thick, and ironically, it's probably his safest bet of getting out.

So he can go into the smoke, and onto the shore. Hope he gets out in time.

Or, further out to sea. Safe from the fire, but inevitably lost, and eventually drowned.

He coughs again and a wave dips his head under the water. He panics, gasps, head bursting through the line. He needs out. He needs out. Where's Steve? His team? Are they dead? God, they could be dead.

He ducks under the water, tries to utilise on those swimming lessons his dad paid so much for, fat lot of fucking good it's doing now, it's too cold to even think, let alone swim, and the water is murky with sewage and waste and debris and he can feel it slimy and slick on his body.

He come up again, some way away, gasping for breath. He looks left, right, up, down, but now there's no sign of anything, or anyone, and there's just smoke, smoke, the open water, and this thing above him, this great, massive, destructive thing, that Tony thinks could kill him at any moment.

He feels the panic seeping into his veins.

"Hello?" He croaks, but everywhere is so eerily quiet, now. Somewhere, maybe, Tony hears sirens. That, and the mechanical hum from the thing above his head. "Hello?" He says again, louder. "Anyone there? Anyone want to help?"

Tony's chest feels tight. From the cold, from the water, from the breathlessness and from fear.

Fear.

He coughs, and the waves rush up, taking him up with them. If they carry him, he could end up back on the shore.

But the tide could be going out. He could end up dead.

And in the worst way.

Tony's not --

He's not scared of water.

He's not.

He's just --

A little, bit, maybe --

Scared of drowning.

Terrified.

In fact, most nights, he dreams about flying high into the sky, high, high, high. And in those dreams, he tries to stop.

But he can't.

So he keeps going, up and up and up.

Until he's in that dark, infinite place.

And he's given a choice: stay and float forever.

Or jump.

So, in that way that only dreams have, he'll let go. Unlatch his suit and fall.

And fall.

And fall.

Fall, until he's in the water.

Usually, it's the dank, dirty water from that cave. The one that made him vomit for days on end. Sometimes, it's the ocean. Others, the glass of a cell, where the water fills up and up while he bangs frantically at the windows and screams and the people outside laugh, or point, or even worse, just ignore him entirely.

It's so, so cold.

Tony realises, now, that he's going to die of hypothermia long before he runs out of energy to stop swimming. The best thing he can do it keep moving. If he finds his way to shore, then maybe the fire will be out by now. Maybe someone will find him. His chances are infinitely better.

He stares at the thing above his head, takes in the four legs, spread so wide apart. They're expendable, he realises. Like a telescope, except they're able to bend, they're flexible.

It's a marvel of engineering, he'll give them that.

There's a sudden, red blast. Tony's head flicks up, and he blinks.

The ground begins to vibrate, the places where the legs are fixed into the sand pulsating with some kind of impossible force. Vibrations, Tony knows intellectually, but they stir up the water, crack it round his head, and the next thing he knows he's back under, except there's no oxygen in his lungs.

And then a particularly vicious wave. He screams as he feels it lift him up, throw him down. 

Crack his head against the metal of a leg, and then it's black.

 

Tony gasps himself back to life.

_Keep breathing,_ he reminds himself _keep breathing, you are alive, keep breathing._

Except then there's water rushing over his head.

When it runs back out, he sucks in air. Oh God, his head. His _head._ That pain, that is, wow. That is something else. He is something else.

He tries to take stock of his surroundings but everything is shimmering around him. The rocks, the wood, the sand. All of it, glittering like diamonds in the light.

He giggles, slightly, and feels the water rush up against his ankles.

He's lying in a small bay under the pier, except there's wood collapsed around him. Wet, damp sand, hard under his back, and strips of orange light floating through the slats along with dust, so pretty, hanging out of the shadows.

He's under the pier. Must be under the pier.

He coughs, once, shivers. It's cold. It's freezing. Tony thinks --

At the same time, he feels very numb. He splashes a hand in the wet sand, turns his head, watches is gloop through his fingers.

It's runny.

Tony giggles again. God, that's funny. He wishes Steve were here to see it. At least that way he wouldn't look stupid laughing to himself.

He's under the pier. Under the pier, under the -- why is he here? What happened? God, his head hurts.

He tries to lift it up, but the effort is immense. He groans, and his neck gives out, muscles all weak and noodly. He slaps onto the wet sand, and the wash of pain overtakes him so hard he feels his gorge rise, feels the burn of saltwater in his throat and then feels it run down his cheek.

Something else, too. Something -- copper.

Oh. Blood.

Ew.

Is his mouth bleeding? His throat? Tony pushes up one last time, tries to see past the haze around him, and his damp head scrapes the bottom of the pier lightly.

He feels it, then. Not the pain, because he isn't feeling anything. He's cold, and shivering, and sick. But he just feels the something in his side. A bit like when you're at the dentist and you're getting a filling and you can feel the weight of the stuff in your mouth but you can't feel the actual pain?

Well, that's him now. Because he's got a big piece of wood sticking out of his side.

Ouch, ouch, ouch. Oh, he feels sick. Oh, that doesn't look good. It makes him shiver all over, his toes curl. When the waves wash back in, he feels it run over his side, and even he is able to feel the sting of the water as it bleeds into his wound.

Wood is good for you. Wait, no. No, wood isn't. It's just not bad for you, right? Wood in your body, it doesn't kill you. Like palladium, for example.

Although maybe it might, if it's sticking out of your side.

Should he take it out? Tony can't remember what he's supposed to do. He knows he doesn't like it. Doesn't like the feel of it, pressed there. If, if he thinks he's punctured an artery, then he leaves it in. If not, take it out. But bellies don't have arteries, do they.

Do they?

Tony coughs. Ew, ew, ew, he can feel all this slimy, slippery stuff at the back of his throat. Like, like, ew.

Each shake makes his head --

Oh, wow, woah, that pain is something else. Absolutely nauseating. God. 

The water washes up again, this time to his neck. It's getting closer. Sometimes it's nearer than others, but eventually, the waves will find his head.

And he won't be able to move.

And he will drown.

That doesn't sound so scary, now. His eyes feel so heavy. He's so cold. Every time the water leaves him, he shivers. It's March, but it's a cold one. And Tony thinks, he thinks --

He blinks, and the light is no longer shining in his face. Maybe he drifted off. What was he saying?

Right. He thinks, maybe, that if he doesn't drown, he'll die of hypothermia. And if not that, then he'll get pneumonia. Wait, before any of that he'll die of thirst, because there's salt water in his body and he's so desperate for a drink. Except, yeah, that's it. He's got a plank of wood in his side, and he's probably bleeding out.

Weak, and tired, dizzy and cold, Tony doesn't think when he lifts his noodly arms. Forces himself to yank the shard from his body.

Oh, now he feels it. Yeah, he feels that. He gives a rasp of pain, and maybe he tries to scream, it's just that his voice is kinda gone with the salt water and maybe some other screaming he can't remember doing.

The wood splats onto the wet sand, and it's dragged away by the next backwash of wave. Except this time, Tony feels the salt run into his wound, and his body spasms in utter agony.

Jesus fuck, why did he do that? Why, why, why. Where is everyone? His head hurts, he's so cold. He can feel the ice in his body, and he's so desperate for some water. It's torture, being surrounded by water but not able to drink.

What time is it? How long has he been here? Everything is quiet, there's no sign of the thing. It's dark, but there's orange light coming through the slats, streetlights. He's further down the pier, then, where the thing didn't reach.

God, no one's going to be looking here. They either think he drowned, or they don't even know he's missing. When it finally clocks, he'll be past salvation.

He's on his own, then.

Tony groans, tries to lift his hand from the soupy ground. He coughs again, and his chest aches.

Ah, fuck.

He pushes his hands off the ground, as much effort as he can muster. Places them against the wood of the pier.

Okay. Okay, he did that. What he needs to do is slide his way down the sand until he's back into the water. Swim out, up, climb onto the pier. Easy.

Except it's not. He can't swim like this. He can barely lift his arms. They're all battered from hours of swimming against the current.

So he can die here, slowly, or try his luck.

Gently, he squirms his way down the soggy bank. He gasps on each breath, a whistle of pain coming from behind his teeth as the wound in his side twists, comes into contact with the burning water. His head has this sharp, beating pain. He wouldn't be surprised if he's cracked his skull.

He uses his slippery grip to push himself out into the sea. It's cold, it's so fucking cold, and he gasps, flinches, bites down a scream.

But then he twists, slightly, and the utter, incomprehensible pain in his side makes him let go, slip into the depths with nothing to hold onto, and it's dark, and he hurts, and he's so weak he can't swim.

He braces his feet on the ground, crouched, and pushes. There are red spots blasting past his vision, he feels like no matter how hard he tries, he's going to sink, drown, end it all --

His hands catch hold of the wood, and he holds on with every inch of strength he has, freezing fingers curling into the wood of the pier. He tugs himself up, aching, screaming when he gasps in air, and rests there, kicking into the water, holding himself up by the edge of the boardwalk.

He pants. He can't do this. There is absolutely no way he can lift himself out of this water.

Steve. He was going to sleep with Steve. Goddamn, Steve.

"Help," he whispers, voice so raw it can't make words. He coughs, wet mucus slipping from his lips. "Help." He tries.

There had been children, he remembers. People. Are they all dead? God, that's, God. Stupid. So fucking stupid, he --

He grunts, slips. Falls back into the cold of the ocean. It's so frustrating he wants to cry. His head hurts so bad and he's bleeding so heavily now he thinks his head is getting woozy. What if he attracts a shark? What if this is like Jaws? Do you get sharks in New York? Tony can't remember. He doesn't want to be eaten.

He used to have a shark, when he was a kid. A little plushy shark. What was it's name?

He needs to get back up, now. Come on. Up, up, up. Don't be stupid, Tony. Don't be stupid, boy.

He blinks, and the saltwater burns his eyes. So dark he can't see his hands float by his face. His lungs burn. His chest hurts. His head feels so, so heavy, and he can't even feel himself anymore.

One more go. One more try. He kicks off with his last strength, snatches onto the wood of the boardwalk. It's foggy, and empty, and Tony doesn't know where everyone's gone. 

He presses up, tries to hoist himself onto the pier. He gasps, a shuddering thing, as his wound twists, and the pressure of lifting himself up jarrs his neck, puts strain on his skull. It's so, so cold, his chest hurts so bad, and he groans.

"Help," he rasps, and sucks in a breath. "Help!"

His fingers are trembling, his whole body shivering. It's too much. Too much. He's got to push up, but he's not strong enough, he can't --

He manages to get halfway. Chest lying flat against the wood, palms scrabbling, trying desperately to lift himself forward.

But then he edge of pier cuts into his side. He actually feels the tear, the burn of wood rubbing on an open wound.

He screams, and is sucked back down into the depths of the water, clawing and kicking, trying to find purchase. His side is on fire, it's burning so bad, and when water slips through his lips he tastes the copper of his own blood.

Oh.

Oh, well that's it.

All gone. All spent. Tony's eyes flicker under the ice.

His lungs burn, his side burns, his eyes burn. Although everything is so cold. 

His hands float in front of his. He clenches his fist, once. Wiggles his fingers.

The light, that dot of light, the one he can see as his body hits the bottom, grows dark.

This must be death.

He sucks in a breath.

And then there's a hand in his.

 

He's wrenched free.

Flashes of light, a spot of warmth. He trembles.

The hard wood of the pier, the icy cold all around him. His eyes roll back in his head.

"C'mon, Tony," Steve says, grunting. "C'mon."

Someone says something, there is a noise, a low buzzing. But Tony isn't breathing.

There's a thump. A fist. Someone is banging his chest.

"Come on, you idiot," Steve says "you stupid, beautiful man. Come on."

He's beautiful. That's almost funny.

Tony feels the his wet shirt being pulled apart, feels a button hit his head. Another thump, another hit, one, two, three, four, and then --

Head pushed back, he feels his neck stretch. It hurts where his skull clacks into the ground.

Jaw held open, and kiss.

Air. He feels his chest inflate. It's a novel feeling.

And then, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, ah ah ah ah staying alive, staying alive.

Something shifts, deep in his chest. He feels the water rising, and then he gasps, salt and copper tickling the back of his throat.

"That's it," Steve pants "come on, Tony, bring it all up. All of it, come on."

Tony hears himself make a noise like tearing as the stuff in his lung is forced out, down his chin. Steve presses his cheek to the ground, lets it run out.

Then, he presses his lips back to Tony's. Breathes for him.

It's shockingly intimate. It should be clinical. But Steve is breathing for Tony, and his fingers ghost his cheek.

He needs to open his eyes. He needs to live.

Again, thumping. This time, something wrenches loose, and he retches, eyes flicking wide. He gasps, sucks in a deep, deep breath, one that stretches the wound on his side, coughs and coughs and coughs until he brings it all up, everything, slimy water and bile slipping from his lips and staining his chest.

Tony is spent. He slumps back onto the wood, pants. The lights blurry above him.

"Tony," Steve says "oh God, you're bleeding out."

Tony coughs again, weak. Tries to talk.

"Don't," Steve says sharply "don't waste your breath -- literally, please. Just breathe, focus on breathing."

Tony makes this pathetic noise, and he won't call it a whimper but it so is, when Steve's warm hand presses against his side. 

"It's deep?" He says "I think it's deep? How did it happen? Wait, don't tell me, just breathe."

Tony's chest rises and falls. "S-s-steve," he manages "Ssssteve, c-c-cold, I'm, c-cold."

"Yeah," Steve says "yeah, here, come on take this."

Tony is draped in something, something thick, and heavy. It doesn't cover all of him, but it's so warm. So, so warm.

His breathing is erratic. His mind is sparking. Twitching. One second Steve is staunching his blood, the next there are bright, bright lights.

"Where did it go?" He mumbles "The big -- wha' 'izzit? Steve?"

"We took it down. Fell into the water, we have people working on getting it out. Suspected old HYDRA tech, mostly petty terrorism. We had the boardwalk cut off, I'm sorry. That's why no one found you."

"The k-k-kids," Tony shivers "w-what, the k-kids, where?"

"What's he trying to say?" Someone murmurs, and Tony blinks, trying to work out what's happened. He's not on the wet boardwalk, he's, he's moving.

"Sssteve?" He manages. "Where's -- "

"Easy, Mr Stark. You settle down, we're nearly there."

"Nearly where?"

"You're in an ambulance, Mr Stark. Your head took a bad, bad knock and you've got a wound on your left side. Pneumonia. We're going to put you under, and take you for surgery."

Tony blinks. "Wait," he says "wait where's Steve?"

Words that fracture, and lose meaning. When he wakes up, he's lying in a bed.

His throat is raw. He feels like he's bleeding into the sheets.

But he's so warm.

Too warm, actually. Hot. Burning.

He coughs, and his hold body shakes. It scrapes the back of his throat.

"Tony." Steve says, murmuring beside him.

Tony turns his head, looks through swollen eyes. He can't speak, so his mouth makes the words. _Steve._

Steve smiles. Takes his hand. "Easy." He says. "Don't tug too hard. They've given you a tracheostomy. You have pneumonia."

Tony nods, and this makes him cough. He tries to moan, but all that comes out is a whine.

Steve's thumb draws a line over Tony's hand. Tony smiles.

Squeezes back.

Steve ducks his head, laughs, slightly. "We had plans."

Tony makes a face. _What you gonna do about it?_ He says, with a small shrug..

Steve had lightly brushes some hair from his forehead. He frowns. "You're hot."

Tony nods. _I know._

Steve runs his fingers down Tony's cheek. Curls a piece of errant hair behind his ear. "So," Steve says, and he clears his throat. "I'm glad you're alive."

_So am I._

"And, if it is all the same to you," Steve says, not meeting his eye. "I was thinking, when you're better, that we could finish our plans?" Steve looks up, suddenly. "I mean, if you want to. I know, I know somethings, they're spur of the moment. So if you don't, I mean, I'll understand. I understand -- "

Tony squeezes his hand once, impatient. Frowns.

"Sorry?"

He coughs. Clears his throat. Winces.

"Don't be an idiot, Steve." He rasps.

Steve smiles. Presses a kiss to his hand.

"It's going to be okay." He says, almost giddy with it. "You're going to be okay."

Tony knows a lot. He knows a lot about science, and math. He knows how long it would take for him to fly around the earth, the weight of Hulk on the moon. The colour of earth after rain. He knows how to play the piano, how to drink, how to fuck. How not to eat dairy products. Stupid things, too, that he doesn't know. He doesn't know how to play ball. He'll never learn to be kind, or good. He knows that he's too broken for those things.

But he realises then, with a sudden, certain clarity, that Steve Roger's loves him.

That he is loved.

That for the first time --

The days spent alone, watching the other children be taken home by their parents. 

Gone.

Nights spent crying silently into his pillow, wanting someone to hold him.

Gone.

The hours that he dedicated to pressing fake smiles onto his face, grooming himself to impeccable standards, attending galas in the hope of meeting someone to share his bed for the night.

Worthless.

In that moment, Tony Stark is loved. In that moment, he is held. And in that moment, maybe, everything is going to be okay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is just some nice stuff, and then I'll have the full list of what exactly Steve learns about Tony Stark. If you have any suggestions for what might be on there, leave a comment
> 
> also there's no way this can really be part of Blue lips blue veins canon anymore just bc I wanted to give Tony a happy ending and I didn't want to wait.


	9. But The Greatest Of These

Tony had spent a long time in the hospital.

After the first week, or two, Tony had gotten bored. And although bored is a fair bit better than dying, it's not by much.

Steve doesn't know what's going on in Tony's head. He's irritable, and snappy. And half the time he pretends to sleep when Steve walks into the room, which is off-putting. And Steve was so sure that they had it right.

That maybe he had a chance?

He doesn't know. Maybe it was just, just heat of the moment. Maybe Tony was just dazed with the sick.

He hadn't pushed Steve away when he held the bin up to vomit in, or when he wiped his brow. He hadn't minded then. But now that he's here, and now that he's himself, it's tenuous. Steve feels tenuous. The whole fucking thing feels strung out, and raw. He wants to ask Tony what's going on, but he doesn't want to tug at their fragile thread for fear it will unravel, or worse, snap.

But he's the one who drives Tony home, after. Wrapped up in a scarf and hat and multiple pairs of socks.

It's quiet, in the car. Steve's windscreen wipers work against the rain.

"Can we change it?" Tony murmurs, gesturing to the radio.

"Sure."

Tony fiddles with it for a while, and then gives up. Leaves it on some interview.

A low buzz against the warmth of the car and the splatter of rain against metal.

Tony starts to cough. Steve looks at him. "Shall I turn it up?" He says, meaning the heating.

"No." Tony says "I'm okay."

Steve nods. Tony looks out the window.

The rain continues to fall.

It's another two hours home. Tony was moved to another, more private clinic, upstate.

Two hours of silence.

Steve clears his throat. "Bad weather," he says "for, you know. This time of year."

"November."

"Yeah." Steve says weakly. "Freezing."

"Uh," Tony sighs. "Yeah. Inconvenient, I guess."

Silence.

"So I'll stop for gas."

"You do that."

Steve's indicator flicks on, and fill the car with it's rhythmic tapping. His hands slide over the leather of the wheel.

"Do you want anything?" He murmurs.

Tony shrugs, and looks out the window.

"Fine." Steve says, maybe too sharply, and slams the door.

He fills up the car and resolutely looks anywhere but Tony's figure sitting alone in the front, wrapped in a parka. He shivers where the rain hits his skin, and pays quickly, buys a coffee from one of those shitty machines in the mini-store attached. He gets one for Tony, too, and hurries out, back into the warmth of the car.

"Here," he says, putting them both in the cup holders on the dash. "I got you one."

"Thanks." 

The coffee lies untouched.

 

It's dark when they get back to the tower. Quiet, too.

Someone's left out some pizza in a box. It's cold, but Steve's too hungry to care. Tony stands, almost unsure, in the space between the kitchenette and the living room.

Steve looks at him, and turns, goes to the coffee pot. "There's pizza." He says, not looking at him.

He can almost hear Tony swallow. "Okay." He says.

Silence. The bubbling of water coming to boil.

"So," Steve says finally "happy to be home."

Tony's eyes close for a second, and he nods. "Yeah," he says "yeah, uh. It's great."

"You don't sound so sure."

Tony's eyelids flicker, and then he looks away.

Steve takes the suitcase Tony had brought back with him from the hospital and unzips the top. Takes out the pills in the little pouch in the lid.

"Don't forget." He says. "Antibiotics."

"Right." Tony smiles weakly, and takes them from Steve's hand.

Their fingers brush.

Steve clears his throat.

"Well," he says "I'll be going, then."

Tony doesn't say anything.

"Make sure you put the pizza away if you don't finish it." Steve says, finally, picking up his plate.

He turns, and still Tony stays, not saying anything.

Steve twists. "Have I said something, to you? Have I, I don't know, offended you, in some way? Because two months ago we were -- " Steve bites off "You know what we were."

Tony shifts, he looks down. "Yeah," he says "sorry. About that. About all of it. I won't -- I'm sorry."

"For what?" Steve demands, sharply.

Tony looks up at him. He shrugs. "Just, just all of it. It won't happen again."

Steve's heart sinks. "Okay." He's says slowly. "Fine. Friends, then."

Tony's face is pained. "Yeah," he says "I mean. Yeah."

Steve tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone. "Well if that's all I'll be going."

He doesn't move, and he sees Tony hover.

"It's just," Tony blurts "I don't want you to -- I'm sorry, I'm really bad at reading people. I just, I go with the default, okay? It's never steered me wrong before. And the default is that it was just one of those things, you know? You don't really, uh, want me. And I can't, I can't tell if you're angry that we -- " Tony shifts "you know. Or if you're angry I didn't, I don't seem to be reciprocating. And it's, it's really fucking hard -- "

"Reciprocation." Steve says. "I'm not -- it's not angry. I'm just... sad. Sad you're not reciprocating."

Steve feels his heart beat in his mouth.

"Oh." Tony says. "Oh. Well -- "

He starts coughing. He raises his hand, presses one hand to his chest, tells Steve to give him a moment. Steve runs water from the tap, slides it near his fingers, waits, close.

Tony sips, and when he speaks, his throat is raw. "Well," he says "I mean," he's looking at a spot somewhere beyond Steve's head. "If that's it. That's not, it wouldn't be a problem?"

"What?" Steve says "What does that mean?"

"I mean, you have two friends, and, and somewhere, along the line, one of them starts to think that maybe he might, he might like the other? And this friend is, well, he's gorgeous, and just, completely unattainable. Like, you're a mess, and a borderline alcoholic, and you just, you know you'll screw it up if you go for it. And the worst thing that could happen -- "

" -- Is that he turns you down." Steve fills in. "And then you're left, because how are you friends after that?"

"And it's worse," Tony says tentatively "because you're not entirely sure if he's into men?"

"Absolutely." Steve says "And he's on this other level. You can barely keep up with his mind, it runs a mile a minute, and he's just, he's this utter genius -- "

" -- but then he goes and does something crazy heroic and you're left wondering what you are, and how can you ever get that, and why would he ever settle for you?"

"Crazy heroic, like go after children at a funfair and end up drowning. And it's, it's near insufferable because he's so damn perfect, and he doesn't -- "

"Realise." Tony says. "And he's so fucking modest about it, who does that? How can he be so, so modest and just -- "

"And after everything," Steve says "after, after torture, and pain, and metal and grafting in his chest he just keeps going. And I can't understand it, I can't, what keeps him ticking? I watch him and watch him but I can never understand -- "

Tony kisses Steve, then. Desperate, heady. His fingers curl in his hair.

Steve gives back all that and more. One hand on the back of Tony's head, another on the small of his back, lifting slightly, and Tony gasps.

Steve moans, involuntary, against Tony's tongue. Tony's teeth find his lip.

Steve pushes back, and Tony's ass hits the counter.

He gives a sharp exhale into Steve's mouth, and Steve takes that air, swallows it down, one hand starting to trace the side of his face.

He kisses Tony hard, and then Tony starts to cough.

"Aww, Jesus," Steve says, breaking apart.

Tony tips the water into his mouth. "Sorry," he says, breathless. "One moment."

He coughs, and then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Right," he says "where were we?"

 

Some weeks later, and they're in bed.

Steve has dreamed this, before. Over and over. He's imagined every way that this could happen.

In the end, it's on fur carpet in Steve's living room. In front of his fire.

Overlooking the night lights of New York.

The first of December; Steve had bought a tree. They had decorated. 

Now, Steve presses Tony against the window. He kisses him, hard.

Tony's hands tug at Steve's buttons, and he shucks off his shirt.

Steve pulls Tony's black vest over his head, he pulls down his pants, and then they kicks them aside.

Back to business: Steve's hand holding Tony's, both pressed against the window. Tony, naked, Steve, nearly there. Tony shivers where the glass hits his shoulders, his ass, the bare backs of his thighs.

Steve blows him, then. Gets to his knees and takes his balls into his mouth, sucks, licks the tip, the shaft, swallows him in one, and then back again. Tony's hands press against the window as he fights not to pull at Steve's hair, his head cracks against the pane, his body leaves condensation so thick it drips down the glass.

It's hot, in here. When they reach the rug, they're too close to the fire. But Steve doesn't stop. In the low light and the humid air he takes Tony apart, piece by piece.

"Back or front?" He murmurs against the skin of Tony's belly, pressing kisses down, down, down.

Tony squirms, slightly. "Back." He breathes, and Steve takes his hips, rolls him onto his front so he's stretched out on the fur, hands coiled loosely by his head, the expanse of his back shimmering with sweat in the light from the flickering fire.

Steve dribbles the lube onto his back, a light, scented oil. He drags his fingers through the slick, down, down, down, until he smoothes it over Tony's ass.

He shifts, slightly. Spreads his legs so Steve can get closer. 

"Slowly," Steve murmurs against Tony's ear as he leans forward, lays his weight against Tony's back, one hand stretched down, opening him gently. "We'll take it slow."

Tony tilts back his head and twists his jaw and Steve kisses him, languorously, as he fucks his fingers into his ass.

"Enough." Tony says, breaking off. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" Steve whispers, pulling back.

"Steve." Tony mumbles, burying his head in the fur. "Please."

Tony moves his hips, slightly, from side to side. Steve shifts onto his knees, feels the soft fur beneath them, imagines what it must feel like on the expanse of Tony's hot, naked, flesh.

Steve presses down against the length of Tony's back, lays his hands on either side of Tony's where they lie pressed by his head. Tony hitches his hips up, slightly, giving Steve enough room to press in.

Steve rocks against him, slowly. He moans at the first drag of his cock out of Tony's hot channel. He presses his chest flush with Tony's back, moves out him, little, smooth movements, and Tony's hands curl into the fur.

"Steve," he mutters, voice thick.  

He presses kisses to the back of Tony's sweaty neck, reverent. "Harder." He murmurs, mostly to himself.

He fucks his hips into Tony and the other man gasps at the sudden change of pace. Steve takes Tony's wrists, his hands, holds them down, holds them in his.

"Good?" He asks.

"Good." Tony says, breathless. "More."

They stay like that, for a while, fucking gently on the rug. Then Tony tugs at his hands, smoothes himself forward.

"What is it?" Steve asks "Does it hurt?"

Tony's response is to push Steve's shoulders down onto the rug, throw a leg over his waist, straddle him. He dips down, presses a kiss to Steve's lips, and Steve melts into it.

Still kissing, he reaches back, takes Steve's slick cock in his hand. Carefully shifting, he moves down until he's able to straighten, to sink down onto Steve's length.

His face tightens. Steve props himself up on his forearms. "Too much?"

Tony groans; shakes his head, and starts to move. Up and down. Steve can't do much else but throw back his head and moan.

"Tony," he gasps, because he's tightening every time he moves up, clenching round Steve so perfectly "oh God, Tony."

Tony's leans back, presses one hand behind him, fisting in the rug, the other smoothing down his belly as if feeling the weight of Steve inside him.

He doesn't make a sound, but he's breathing heavily. His eyes are closed, sweat beading on his brow. Focused.

"Tony." Steve says again, panting "Look at me. Look at me, Tony?"

Tony's eyes slide open even as he's fucking down hard on Steve's cock. "I love you." Steve says. "I love you."

Tony brings round his hands, presses them to Steve's chest, and Tony holds them. "I love you." Tony whispers.

Is someone walked in now, they would be two silhouettes, framed by the fire.

Steve comes soon after, mouth an 'O', brows drawing together. Tony is panting, by the end, out of breath. He slides off Steve's cock, come dribbling from his ass, and slumps, chest down, on the rug by the fire.

Steve crawls to lie by him. It's too hot, now, for a blanket, but he places an arm round Tony's shoulders. They both lie there.

The crackle of the fire, the soft weight of the rug.

New York lights, still so bright in the dark.

"I love you." Steve says again. 

"I love you." Tony repeats.

He breathes against Tony's neck, and then smoothes his sweaty hair away from his brow. It's too hot, and they should probably go to bed, but it's so easy to just stay this way, with him. Locked, safe, held by the heat and the longing and dark blanket of night wrapped outside their window.

It's sticky, and slick, and perfect.

Tony is worth staying for.

He has that effect on people.

 

_It’s warm outside for the first time in months._

_Winter was cold that year, epitomised by heads braced against wind, umbrellas blown and snow on ankles. Dark nights spent reading, battles were the suit would freeze and Steve would stand with a hair dryer, laughing, as he warmed the joints to get to his partner._

_New York in spring is everything Steve loves. New beginnings and hope, it exudes from every tree, every flower, every second that he stands in warm sun that heats his heart. Thaws._

_Light throws shadows across Tony’s face. It catches on his cheekbones, darkens on the groove of his cheeks, plays in his curly hair. He’s a sunshine person, Steve thinks, he was made for this. Tan skin and weathered face, all sun and summer. He’s not made to sit in cold or ice, he’s all heat._

_Right now, he’s licking an ice-cream. It’s 1pm and Central Park is heaving. They’re just walking, dressed in T-shirts and jeans, relishing the day. Because it’s their first break in a long time, because it’s warm and because they stand next to one another, side by side, and in love._

_Admittedly, he spends a lot of time looking at Tony’s devious mouth as it sucks and licks. Wonders if he can put it to good use later._

_Steve feels happy, like this. Content. Time stretches and they have forever._

_The tower is cool when they return, setting sun streaming through the wide windows onto the couch in their apartment. They sit together, Steve runs a hand through Tony’s hair, and they talk, about politics, team-mates, past missions, friends, their favourite TV show and theories._

_Tony is a warm heat on his lap and he drags him in for a kiss. Their tongues push, Tony fists his hands in the hair on Steve’s head, his own hands caught in Tony’s T-shirt. He palms Tony’s cock just to hear him gasp into his mouth, his small little moans and he presses against Steve._

_His little whimpers are so beautiful and Steve groans at the feel of him, the way he slinks to the floor and takes Steve in his mouth, licks across the shaft, sucks the head, takes him deep, deep and then swallows, his throat tightening._

_They lie on the couch, Tony on Steve's chest, and watch as the sun falls, not talking._

_Steve strokes Tony’s head as he falls asleep._

_Before he falls down himself, he sees them both. Tony, stretched out across his body. Steve, arms wrapped round his back._

_Maybe it's the haze of sleep, a brief lucid state of dreaming, but Steve swears he can hear the heady hum of the cicadas._

_They sleep._

 

** the end. **

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is actually ever finished a story?? That I haven't deleted or written in one big go, I mean.
> 
> So there we go! Yeah, it breaks with actual BLBV canon because I wanted Tony and Steve to fuck and their first time is going to be verrrry different in BLBV.
> 
> So there's that.
> 
> And yeah! Thanks for reading, your comments are all fab, you're all fab x1,000,000 take a pile of puppies, all of you, hundreds of puppies for each of you.
> 
> I did enjoy writing this, actually. I was going to do a big list of everything Steve had figured out about Tony but then I tried and it's actually impossible, so.
> 
> BUT THANK YOU. OKAY. THANKS.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are GREATLY APPRECIATED and if you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you're interested, there's another story in this verse which is a million times longer and twice as angst-filled. Eventual Steve/Tony; the events in this story take place later on in it's timeline: [Blue Lips, Blue Veins](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1802140/chapters/3865294)


End file.
